BALLADS 

of     the 
FARM  AND  HOME 

HENRY     H.     JOHNSON 

Author  of  "liallads  of  the  Hearthstone,"  file. 


.lust  u  singer  of  old  songs, 

Simple  tunes  that  reach  the  place 
Where  the  best  of  life  belongs, 

W  here  we  look  as  face  to  face , 
»  MI  the  sacred  tilings  and  sweet, 

of  our  lives  and  wonder  how 
We  had  half  forgotten  the  in - 

All  so  well  remembered  iiow. 

— 8.  H.  Me  Manns. 


rlllNTKI)   II V   TIIK 


KLKHAKT,   INDIANA,  U. 


FROM  SHORE  TO  SHORE. 


I    HAD  a  vision  just  at  eventide: 
Before  me  swelled  an  ocean  deep  and  wide, 
And  here  and  there  upon  its  broad,  blue  breast, 
Gay  ships  were  seen,  all  moving,  none  at  rest. 
An  angel  form  stood  by  me  on  the  strand, 
With  shining  features  and  with  outstretched  hand, 
Pointing  my  gaze  the  dark-blue  waters  o'er, 
And  bade  me  watch  the  ships  that  left  the  shore. 

He  spake  in  tones  that  thrilled  my  very  soul: 
"Gaze  forth,  oh  man,  where  yon  blue  waters  roll! 
Behold  life's  ocean  spreading  far  and  wide, 
Behold  the  ships  that  skim  its  swelling  tide. 
Each  craft  you  see  is  but  a  human  life, 
Launched  forth  to  win  or  perish  in  the  strife. 
Mark  well  the  course  and  destiny  of  each, 
And  profit  by  the  truth  their  ends  doth  teach." 

I  saw  a  tiny  boat  shoot  from  the  shore, 
So  frail  it  scarce  could  float  the  freight  it  bore, — 
An  infant,  with  its  great  and  wondering  eyes 
Gazing  around  in  childish,  glad  surprise. 
Onward  the  fragile  craft  serenely  sped; 
The  infant  laughed  in  glee.     No  fear  nor  dread 
It  felt,  but  shouting  loudly  in  its  glee, 
It  rode  the  surface  of  the  shining  sea. 
7 


FROM  SHORE  TO  SHORE. 
I  saw,  a  little  farther  from  the  shore, 
A  larger  boat  propelled  by  silver  oar; 
A  group  of  happy  children  was  its  load, 
And  merrily  they  played  as  on  they  rode. 
I  heard  them  laughing  loudly  in  their  play, 
As  onward  sped  their  boat  upon  its  way; 
I  heard  their  voices  shouting  o'er  the  flood — 
"O,  life  is  grand!     All  things  in  life  are  good!" 

A  little  farther  out,  with  swelling  sail 
And  streaming  flag  moved  by  the  gentle  gale, 
A  yacht  sped  on;  brave  youths  and  maidens  fair, 
Upon  its  decks  were  pacing  here  and  there. 
In  beauty  smiled  the  soft,  blue  skies  above, 
While  arm  in  arm  they  walked  and  talked  of  love, 
And  gazed  into  the  future  glowing  bright 
With  sunny  days,  but  saw  no  dismal  night. 

Still  farther  out,  with  masts  and  sails  and  shrouds 
Towering  aloft  toward  the  hovering  clouds, 
A  goodly  ship  I  saw;  strong  men  were  there, 
With  brows  on  which  were  marked  faint   lines   of 

care, — 

And  matrons,  in  whose  auburn  tresses  glow 
The  first  precursors  of  the  coming  snow. 
Some   strove    for  wealth,    and    some  for  dazzling 

fame, 
While  others  cared  for  neither  gold  nor  name. 

Far  out  and  near  the  distant,  shadowy  strand, 
I  saw  a  ship  approach  the  darkened  land. 


FROM  SHORE  TO  SHORE, 
It  bore  the  scars  of  many  an  angry  gale, 
On  hull  and  mast  and  shroud  and  tattered  sail. 
Groups  of  the  aged  thronged  its  storm-worn  deck,. 
They,  like  this  vessel,   scarcely  more  than  \vreck;. 
Old  men  and  women,  bent  with  age  and  toil, 
Bearing  with  tottering  limbs  their  mortal  coil. 

With  snowy  heads  and  shoulders  stooping  low, 

They  sat,  or  slowly  tottered  to  and  fro; 

Seamed   were    their    brows    with    many   a    line    of 

care, — 

Rough  storms  of  life  had  left  their  traces  there. 
And  some,  their  longing  glances  backward  cast, 
And  sighed  for  joys  and  loves  and  labors  past 
Others,  with  eager  eyes,  pierced   the   thick   gloomr 
And  saw  a  life  beyond  the  nearing  tomb. 

I  strained  my  gaze  the  broad,  deep  ocean  o'er, — 
A  deep,  dark  gulf  composed  the  further  shore. 
"Tell  me,"    I   cried,    "what   'tis  that   bounds   the 

wave!' ' 

The  angel  sighing  answered:  "  'Tis  the  grave! 
What  thou  hast  seen  is  life's  full- written  page; 
Mark  well  its  course  from  infancy  to  age. 
See  how,  from  sunshine  on  to  murky  gloom 
Its  course  proceeds, — its  end  the  silent  tomb.  " 

"But  see!"     And   pointing  with   his    outstretched 

hand, — 
I  saw  the  outlines  of  a  golden  land: 

9 


FROM  SHORE  TO  SHORE. 

Close  to  the  grave  its  borders  seemed  to  lie, 
And  thence  it  stretched  beyond  the  farthest  sky. 
"Behold  the  life  beyond  this  earthly  one! 
When  this  is  o'er  then  that  will  be  begun. 
To  reach  it,  man  must  pass  through  all  the  gloom 
That  gives  the  chill  and  terror  to  the  tomb; 
But  once  transported  to  that  happy  shore, 
Man's  life  will  grow  in  bliss  forevermore." 


10 


THE  HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL, 


7j\ITHIN  the  palace  of  the  king, 
VJ>/      A  royal  feast  was  spread; 
The  tables  groaned  .with  viands  rare, 

Belshazzar  at  its  head. 
Beside  the  king,  on  right  and  left, 

With  proud  and  haughty  mein, 
A  thousand  lords  of  Babylon, 

His  chosen  guests,  were  seen. 

Then    flowed  the  wine,  then  rang  the  shouts, 

Resounding  through  the  hall; 
What  recked  they  that  the  foemen  swarmed 

Outside  the  city  wall? 
Let  mirth  and  revelry  and  wine, 

The  night's  long  hours  speed  on; 
No  foemen 's  might  can  break  the  walls 

Of  grand  old  Babylon! 

"Ho!"  spake  the  king,  "fill  every  cup 

With  joy-infusing  wine, 
And  we  will  drink  to  Babylon's  gods, 

Thanksgiving  for  the  vine!" 
Then  loudly  rang  the  revelers'  shouts, 

Then  flowed  the  liquid  cheer; 
Each  heart  beat  high  in  maudlin  mirth, 

Nor  felt  one  pang  of  fear. 

12 


THE  HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL. 

But  what  is  that  which  stills  each  tongue 

And  blanches  every  cheek, 
And  makes  Belshazzar's  haughty  form, 

Grow  tremulous  and  weak? 
His  staring  eyes  in  horror  gaze! 

His  knees  with  terror  shake! 
What  sight  or  sound  can  fright  him  thus — 

His  haughty  spirit  quake? 

Behold  upon  the  whitened  wall, 

A  shadowy,  phantom  hand, 
Tracing  strange,  wondrous,  mystic  words, 

He  cannot  understand! 
The  cup,  untasted,  brimming  stands, 

Each  voice  is  hushed  in  fear, 
Until  the  frightened  monarch  speaks — 

"Go  bid  the  seers  draw  near!" 

They  come,  Chaldea's  wisest  men, 

Who  strive,  but  all  in  vain, 
The  mystic  writing  to  expound — 

Its  meaning  to  explain. 
In  vain  his  threats,  in  vain  his  bribes, 

In  vain  his  stern  command; 
Their  skill  cannot  expound  the  words 

Traced  by  the  phantom  hand. 

"Ho!     Bring  the  captive  prophet  forth, 

The  old  Judean  seer, 
And  let  him  speak  those  mystic  words 

And  make  their  meaning  clear!" 

13 


THE  HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL. 

He  came,  the  aged,  gray-haired  man, — 

He  read  the  words  of  doom 
That  told  Chaldea's  course  was  run — 

That  night  would  build  her  tomb. 

While  yet  the  prophet's  solemn  words 

Proclaimed  Chaldea's  fate, 
The  foe,  with  martial  tramp  and  shout, 

Entered  the  palace  gate. 
With  shriek  and  groan  and  clang  of  steel, 

The  palace  walls  did  ring, 
And  slain  within  his  palace  halls, 

Fell  Babylon's  proud  king. 


14 


FORTY-FOUR  TO-DAY. 


HOW  quickly  time  speeds  on  its  flight,. 
How  swiftly  years  roll  on! 
We  scarcely  hail  the  new  year  born, 

Ere  its  brief  course  is  run. 
I  look  back  o'er  the  past,  and  count 

The  years  now  passed  away, 
And  find  I  am  no  longer  young, 
But  forty-four  to-day. 

It  seems  but  yesterday  that  I 

Sat  on  my  father's  knee 
And  thought  of  the  long  years  to  come, 

Ere  I  a  man  should  be. 
The  years  then  seemed  so  long,   I  thought 

They  ne'er  would  pass  away; 
But  they  are  gone,  and  here  I  am 

Just  forty-four  to-day! 

Ambitious  hopes  that  fondly  dwelt 

Within  my  bosom  then, — 
Of  honored  station  I  would  hold 

Among  my  fellow  men, — 
Those  hopes  that  filled  my  bosom  once, 

Like  dreams  have  passed  away. 
And  left  the  stern  reality, 

I'm  forty-four  to-day. 

15 


FORTY-FOUR  TO-DAY. 

The  home  where  I  in  childhood  played, 

Is  home  no  more  for  me; 
'Mong  those  who  now  are  gathered  there, 

No  well-known  form  I  see. 
My  playmates  that  in  youthful  days 

I  loved,  Oh,  where  are  they? 
But  few  remain  to  say  with  me, 

"I'm  forty-four  to-day." 

I've  something  known  of  life's  delights, 

I've  tasted  of  life's  woe,— 
I've  seen  the  lowly  rise  to  fame, 

I've  seen  the  high  brought  low; 
I've  seen  youth's  rosy  beauty  fade, 

I've  seen  brown  hair  turn  gray, 
I've  seen  the  whole  forenoon  of  life, — 

I'm  forty-four  to-day. 

I  look  back  o'er  my  life  and  ask, 

What  good  deed  have  I  done, 
That  men  may  bless  my  memory 

When  my  life's  course  is  run? 
If  I've  done  all  to  bless  my  kind, 

That  has  lain  in  my  way, 
Then,  not  in  vain  I've  lived  to  count 

My  forty-fourth  birthday. 


16 


ONLY  ONE  KILLED 


AS  I  scanned  my  morning  paper, 
Noting  what  its  columns  said, 
One  brief  item  caught  my  notice, 
And  its  few  short  words  I  read. 
'Twas  an  accident  there  mentioned, 

Happened  to  a  railroad  train, — 
Thus  the  morning  paper  told  it: 
"Only  one  poor  brakeman  slain.'' 

Then  I  flung  aside  the  paper, — 

Strange,  sad  thoughts  came  in  my  head, 
While  alone  I  sat  and  pondered 

Of  that  one  poor  brakeman  dead! 
Only  one  among  the  hundreds, — 

He  the  only  one  to  die: — 
He  was  nothing  but  a  brakeman, — 

Hardly  worth  a  tear  or  sigh. 

Then  my  thoughts  in  sadness  wandered 

To  the  luckless  brakeman's  home 
Where  a  wife  and  prattling  baby 

Wait  in  vain  for  him  to  come. 
God  have  pity  on  the  infant! 

Heaven  help  the  widowed  wife! 
Two  poor  hearts  are  crushed  with  anguish, 

By  the  loss  of  that  one  life. 

17 


ONLY  ONE  KILLED. 

Hearts  are  crushed  and  hopes  are  blighted, 

Joy  from  one  bright  home  has  fled; 
Tears  are  flowing,  sobs  are  welling, 

For  that  one  poor  brakeman,  dead! 
Though  the  world  may  feel  no  sorrow, 

Show  no  sign  of  grief  or  pain, 
Some  fond  hearts  are  wrung  with  anguish, 

For  that  one  poor  brakeman  slain. 

Only  one!     'Tis  soon  forgotten, — 

Scarce  remembered  through  the  day; 
Other  themes  our  thoughts  engaging, 

Drive  it  from  our  minds  away; 
But  our  hearts  would  break  with  anguish, 

We  would  weep  and  sob  and  moan, 
We  would  feel  the  bitterest  sorrow 

If  the  dead  one  were  our  oivn. 


THE  OLD  MAN  TO  HIS  WIFE. 


T  UST  fifty  years  ago,  Peggy, 
I       Just  fifty  years  to-day; — 
That  time  we'll  ne'er  forget,  Peggy, 

Our  hearts  were  young  and  gay. 
You  put  your  hand  in  mine  that  day, — 

I  knew  it  trembled  some, — 
I  knew  you  thought  it  hard  to  part 

From  friends  and  dear,  old  home. 

I  was  just  twenty-one,  you  know, 

And  you  were  just  eighteen — 
The  fairest  girl  in  all  the  town, 

Or  country  too,  I  ween. 
Your  eyes  were  clear  as  diamonds  bright, 

Your  teeth  were  like  the  pearls, 
Your  hair,  a  mass  of  golden  light, 

Fell  round  your  head  in  curls. 

No  prouder  man  than  I  that  day 

When  you  and  I  were  wed; — 
I  envied  not  the  king,  the  crown 

He  wore  upon  his  head. 
I  know  the  boys  all  envied  me, 

The  girls  all  envied  you; — 
All  things  looked  bright  to  us  that  day;- 

Life  showed  its  brightest  hue. 

19 


THE  OLD  MAN  TO  HIS  WH-i.. 

We  both  were  poor  in  this  world's  goods, 

But  rich  in  strength  and  health; 
Our  hearts  were  strong  and  resolute, 

And  toil  would  bring  us  wealth. 
No  lazy  hairs  grew  on  our  heads, — 

We  scorned  not  honest  work; 
We  had  our  fortune  all  to  make, 

And  did  not  dare  to  shirk. 

Our  farm  was  covered  then  with  woods, — 

No  house  for  miles  around. — 
Your  father  thought  we  both  were  fools 

As  big  as  could  be  found, 
When  we  set  out  to  build  our  home 

And  make  our  fortune  here; 
He  said  we'd  both  get  sick  and  die, 

Without  a  neighbor  near. 

Our  house  was  built  of  logs,  you  know, — 

The  cracks  were  stopped  with  clay; 
'Twas  rough  and  rude,  but  'twas  our  home 

For  many  a  happy  day. 
I  know  the  day  1  moved  you  there, 

You  tried  to  wear  a  smile, 
You  praised  the  house  and  called  it  nice; — 

I  watched  you  all  the  while  — 

And  when  at  night  we'd  gone  to  bed, 

You  thought  I  was  asleep. 
Then  you  gave  out  and  broke  right  down, 

And  I  could  hear  you  weep. 
20 


THE  OLD  MAN  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

I  hadn't  never  thought  before, 

How  much  you'd  have  to  bear 
In  leaving  all  your  dear,  old  friends 

Who'd  lighten  half  your  care. 

And  then  I  tried  to  cheer  you  up, 

And  begged  you  not  to  cry, 
And  told  you  that  much  better  times 

Would  sure  come  by  and  by. 
You  dried  your  tears  and  bravely  said 

You'd  do  the  best  you  could; 
We'd  both  work  hard  and  trust  in  God 

That  all  would  come  out  good. 

The  wolf's  dread  howl,  the  panther's  scream, 

We  heard  through  many  a  night; 
We  had  no  fears;  for  we  were  safe, — 

Our  house  was  snug  and  tight. 
The  wild  deer  bounded  lightly  by 

And  looked  into  our  door; — 
He  seemed  to  wonder  at  the  sight 

He'd  never  seen  before. 

From  early  morn  till  late  at  night, 

We  toiled  through  many  a  year; 
We  saw  with  pride,  at  each  day's  close, 

The  forest  disappear. 
And  when  at  lengh  our  farm  was  cleared, 

Rich  crops  of  golden  grain 
Rewarded  us  for  all  our  toil;— 

It  had  not  been  in  vain. 
21 


THE  OLD  MAN  TO  HIS  WIPE 

Our  old  log  house  began  to  look 

Too  humble  for  us  then; 
Our  girls  were  almost  women  grown, 

Our  boys  were  almost  men. 
They  wanted  us  to  tear  it  down, 

And  build  one  large  and  new; 
The  log  house  once  was  good  enough, 

But  now  'twould  hardly  do. 

And  so  we  tore  the  old  house  down, 

And  built  one  large  and  new; 
Of  course  it  cost  us  quite  a  pile, 

But  then  we  liked  it  too. 
Our  friends  could  come  and  see  us  then, — 

We'd  lots  of  room  to  spare; — 
No  better  house  for  miles  around, 

Nor  maybe  anywhere. 

But  Peggy,  there  are  memories, 
How  tender  they  seem  yet, 

That  cluster  'round  that  old,  log  house, 
I  never  can  forget. 

"Twas  there  our  children  all  were  born; — 
'Twas  there  our  youngest  died; — 

'Twas  there  we've  seen  some  happy  times- 
Some  sorrow,  too,  beside. 

'Twas  there  that  you  were  taken  sick, — 

The  doctor  said  you'd  die; 
For  days  and  nights,  beside  your  bed, 

I  watched  with  sleepless  eye; 

22 


THE  OLD  MAN  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

And  when  at  length  the  fever  turned, 

The  doctor  smiled  and  said 
You'd  live,  I  only  know  I  dropped 

Upon  my  knees  and  prayed. 

Our  children  now  have  all  grown  up, 

Have  children  of  their  own; 
The  world  has  not  stood  still  and  looked, 

While  we  have  older  grown. 
Your  hair,  once  golden  brown,  Peggy, 

Has  faded  white  as  snow; 
The  wrinkles  in  your  dear,  old  face 

Were  not  there  once,  I  know. 

My  hair  has  grown  gray,  too,   Peggy, 

Care's  wrinkles  mark  my  brow; 
My  step,  once  firm  in  manhood's  prime, 

Has  grown  unsteady  now. 
We're  walking  down  life's  plane,  Peggy, 

Together  hand  in  hand. 
Death's  stream  is  near; — we'll  soon  cross  o'er 

Into  the  better  land. 

Our  hearts  have  not  grown  old,    Peggy, 

Our  love  is  just  as  true 
As  when  upon  our  wedding  day 

Life  wore  a  roseate  hue. 
Our  hearts  will  ne'er  grow  old,  Peggy, 

With  love  they  overflow, 
The  same  as  on  our  wedding  day 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

23 


WE  MUST  LEAVE  THE  OLD  HOME, 
MARY. 


WE  must  leave  the  old  home  soon,  Mary;  God 
knows  how  it  most  breaks  my  heart 
To  think   of  the   sad  times  before  us  when  we've 

got  to  get  ready  to  start; 
But  there's  no  use  for  us  now  a  cryin'  for  what  has 

been  done  in  the  past, 

An'  we  ought  to  remember  that  pleasure,  though 
sweet,  is  not  always  to  last. 

You   know  we  worked  hard   and  we    stinted,    an' 

made  every  cent  do  its  best, 
Till   we   bought  this  nice  house  an'   moved  in   it 

an'  thought  we'd  be  able  to  rest. 
Then  we  owned  all  this  fine  farm   around  us  an' 

owed  not  a  person  a  cent, 
An'  we   thought   we   could  spend  all  our  lives  here 

in  happiness,  rest  an'  content. 

How  happy  we've  been  since  we  lived  here,  no  lan- 
guage of  ours  can  name; 

Each  day  has  been  full  of  enjoyment;  the  weeks 
an'  the  years  just  the  same; 

24 


WE  MUST  LEAVE  THE   OLD  HOME,  MARY. 

Only  once,  when  our  sweet  little   baby   took   sick 

with  the  fever  an'  died, 
We   thought   that   things   couldn't  look  darker,  an' 

wished  we  were  both  by  her  side. 

But  the  preacher,  God  bless  him,  stood  by  us  an' 

spoke  words,  of  comfort  an'  cheer, 
An'   told  us   our  child  was  in  heaven  in  the  arms 

of  the  Savior  so  dear, 
An'   there  we   should   meet  her  in  glory  when  our 

labors  on  earth  here  were  done, 
An'    live  on  forever  an'  ever    in    the   presence   of 

God  and  His  Son. 

Sometimes    I    have    thought   we    were    selfish    an' 

proud  of  the  riches  we'd  got, 
An 'not  thankful  enough  to  our  Maker  forblessin's 

that  fell  to  our  lot; 
But  we  tried  to  be  grateful  for  mercies,    an'  tried 

to  do  good  with  our  store; 
No   needy  or   sick   person  ever  went  hungry  away 

from  our  door. 

I  thought,  when  I  signed  with  Josiah,    I  was  doin' 

a  neighborly  deed; — 
I   thought  that  no  risk   I  was  running  but  helpin' 

a  man  in  his  need. 
He  wanted  just  five  thousand  dollars,  an'  asked  for 

the  help  of  my  name; — 
So   I    signed    on    the   note   that    he    showed    me. 

Smarter  men  would  have  done  just  the  same. 

25 


WE  MUST  LEAVE  THE  OLD  HOME,  MARY. 

I  thought  that  Josiah  was  honest;  yes,  on  that  I'd 

a  most  risked  my  life; 
But  too  late  I  found  out  to  my  sorrow  he'd  deeded 

his  farm  to  his  wife. 
When    the    note   that    I'd    signed    was    protested, 

Josiah  kept  out  of  the  way, 
So  it  falls  onto  me  as  endorser,   an'  there's  nothin' 

for  me  but  to  pay. 

But  it  takes  all  we've  gathered  together, — our  farm 

an'  our  buildin's  an'  stock, 
To  pay  up  that  note  of  five  thousand;  for  Jones  is 

as  hard  as  a  rock, 
An'  says  that  he  must  have  the  money,  when  raise 

it  he  knows  I  can  not; 
So  there's  no  other  way  left  me  but  to  give  him  up 

all  we  have  got. 

Our  good,  old  home  never  seemed  dearer  than  it 

does  now  we  know  we  must  leave; 
That    strangers    must    own    this    dear   homestead, 

seems  almost  too  hard  to  believe; 
An',  Mary,  I  can't  keep  from  cryin'   to  think  what 

our  future  will  be: — 
When  once  we  have  left  this  dear  homestead,   God 

knows  when  another  we'll  see. 

If  we  were  both  forty  years  younger  an'  healthy 

an'  hearty  as  then, 
We  could  start  out  once  more  with   good  courage, 

an'  build  up  our  fortune  again; 
26 


WE  MUST  LEAVE  THE  OLD  HOME,  MARY. 

But  now  we  are  both  over  sixty;—  you  just  that  an' 

I  sixty-one. 
We're  too  old  to  work  hard  as  we   used  to.     Life's 

labors  with  us  are  'most  done. 

For  myself  I  don't  think  I  would  mind  it  so  much, 

for  1  know  Pm  to  blame; 
But  whatever  of   hardship  I'll  suffer,   I  know  that 

you'll  surfer  the  same. 
I  thought  I  was    doin'   a   kindness,   an'    helpin'    a 

neighbor  along, 
An'  I  never  would  dreamed  that  Josiah  would  done 

me  so  cruel  a  wrong. 

But  the  homestead  must  go  from   us,    Mary!    God 

forgive  the  bad  man  for  his  deed! 
We'll  try  to  forgive  while  we  suffer,  an'  trust  God 

to  supply  every  need; 
But  I  can't  hardly  keep  from  complainin',  when  I 

think  of  the  home  we  must  leave, 
An'  that  strangers   will   come  in  our  places,    only 

makes  me  the  harder  to  grieve. 

Every  room  in  this  house  has  its  mem'ries  of  times 

that  are  gone  in  the  past, 
Each  time  I  look  out  of  the  window  I  think  it   will 

soon  be  the  last; 
An'  I  can't  help  the  tears  that  are  startin',  an'  the 

sighs  that  come  up  from  my  heart 
When  I  think  that  the  time  is  soon   comin'  when 

this  old  house  an'  we  are  to  part. 

27 


WE  MUST  LEAVE  THE   OLD  HOME,  MARY. 

Yes,  we'll  leave  in  a  few  days  now,    Mary;   I'll  try 

to  bear  up  if  I  can. 
I  know  that  this  cryin'   an'  snivelin'    is  hardly  the 

thing  for  a  man; 
But  it  seems  'most  like  tearin'   my  heart-strings  to 

bid  the  old  homestead  good-by, — 
To  leave  the  dear  old  house  forever,  where  we've 

both  lived  an'  both  hoped  to  die. 


GRANDFATHER'S  STORY. 


COME    right   here,    you   little    toddler.      Crawl 
right  up  on  grandpa's  knee, 
An'  I'll  tell  my  boy  a  story  of  the  times  that  used 

to  be 
When  your  father  was   a  youngster  just  about   as 

big  as  you, 

Just  about  as  fat  an'  healthy,  an'  as  full  of  mischief 
too. 

Then     this     country^    wasn't     settled; — neighbors 

wasn't  very  near; 
All  was  thick,   dark  woods  around   us,   filled   with 

wolves  an'  bears  an'  deer; 
We  could  hear  the  wolves  a  howlin'   'round  about 

us  every  night, 
An'  the  panther's  fearful   screechin'    didn't  add   to 

our  delight. 

But  we  didn't  fear  the  critters,   for  our  house  was 

good  an'  stout, 
Made  of  logs  cut  in   the   forest,   strong  enough   to 

keep  'em  out; 
So  we  all  slept  just  as  soundly  as  we  do  in  this  big 

house, 
An'  we  feared  no  wolf  nor  panther  any  more'n  we 

would  a  mouse. 

29 


GRANDFATHER'S  STORY. 

An'   we   both   were  just  as   happy,    (that  is    your 

grandma  an'  me), 
Jest  as  happy  as  two  persons  who  have  health  an' 

strength  can  be; 
An'  yer  father  was  a  youngster  nigh  on  four  or  five 

years  old, 
That  we  wouldn't  sold  nor   traded   for  'bout  twice 

his  weight  in  gold. 

'Twas  one  afternoon  in  summer,—  I  was  choppin' 

in  the  woods, 
An'   your   grandma    was  a   cleanin    up    our   stock 

o'  household  goods; 
Ted    (that's    what   we    called    yer    father),    was    a 

playin'  'round  the  house, 
Cuttin'  up  his  cunnin'  capers   as  mischievous  as  a 

mouse. 

All  at  once  your  grandma  missed  him  an'  she  went 

a  lookin'  'round; — 
Hunted  high  an'  low  to  find  him,  but  no    Teddy 

could  be  found. 
Then  the  awful  thought  came  to  her  that  her  boy 

had  strayed  away 
An'    got  lost  there  in  the  forest,    or    become    the 

panther's  prey. 

Then    she    thought    about    the    dinner-horn,    an' 

quickly  grabbed  the  thing 
An'  blowed  a  blast  upon  it  that  made  the  old  woods 

ring. 

30 


GRANDFATHER'S  STORY. 

I  heerd  it  an'  1  wondered   what   on  airth  could   be 

to  pay, 
For  I'd  never  heard  that  horn  before  at  such  a  time 

of  day. 

But  I  knowed  that   somethin'   dreadful   had   come 

over  her  or  Ted, 
An'  I  quickly  stopped  my  choppin',  while  I   fairly 

shook  with  dread; — 
Then  I  dropped  my  axe  an'  started  just   the  best 

that  I  could  run, 
An'  I   made  the  spryest   steppin'  on  that  day   I'd 

ever  done. 

When  I  reached  the  house,  yer  grandma  sot   there 

pale  as  any  ghost, 
Wringin'   of  her  hands  an'  cryin',    "Ted   is    lost! 

Poor  Ted  is  lost!" 
An'  I  couldn't  find  out  nothin'   only  that  the  boy 

was  gone, 
For  yer  grandma  kept  on   cryin'  in  that  way,  an' 

takin'  on. 

Then  I  tried  my  best  to  cheer  her; — told  her  that 

I'd  find  the  child, 
Though  my  heart  was  almost  broken  an'  my  head 

was  almost  wild; 
So   I   took   my  good,   old  rifle,    said  a  prayer  for 

little  Ted,— 
Started  out  into  the  woods  to  find  the  boy  alive  or 

dead. 

31 


GRANDFATHERS  STORY. 

All    the    afternoon    I    hunted,   lookin'  'round  each 

bush  an'  tree, 
But  no  sight  nor  trace  of  Teddy  in  the  forest  could 

I  see; 
An'  when  darkness  came  around  me  so  I  couldn't 

hunt  no  more, 
I  went  back  to  cheer  yer  grandma,  for  her  heart 

was  awful  sore. 

In   the   mornin'    I   was   travelin'  soon  as  daylight 

ever  shone, 
An'    yer    grandma    she    went    with    me,    for    she 

wouldn't  stay  alone. 
On  an'  on  we  tramped  an'  hunted,  lookin'  close  on 

ev'ry  side, 
Peerin'  sharp  in  clumps  of  bushes  where  a   rabbit 

couldn't  hide. 

By   and  by,   almost   discouraged,    grandma   cryin' 

like  a  child, 
An'  my  poor  heart  almost  breakin'  an'  my   brain 

a  goin'  wild, — 
All  at    once  I   sighted   something  made  my  heart 

bound  up  in  joy, — 
There,  asleep  beside  some  bushes,  lay  our  darlin' 

little  boy! 

Fast  asleep,  his  little  fingers  stained    with   berries 

that  he'd  eat, — 
Stains  upon  his  dress  an'  apron,   scratches  on  his 

chubby  feet; 

32 


GRANDFATHER'S  STORY. 

But  these  things  we   didn't   notice,    for  our   hearts 

were  wild  with  joy, 
When  we   seen    right    there    before    us,    safe    and 

sound,  our  darlin'  boy! 

But  the  joy  we  both  were  feelin'  quickly  changed 

to  dreadful  fear, 
For    there    right    above  our  Teddy,  in  a  hemlock 

standin'  near, 
Lay   a    monstrous,    hungry    panther,    fixin'   for    a 

savage  leap 
On  our  darlin'  little  Teddy  lyin'  quiet,  fast  asleep. 

We  could  hear  the  panther  growlin',  see  his  eye- 
balls glistenin'  bright; 

See  his  savage  mouth  wide  open  an'  his  teeth  a 
shinin'  white, — 

See  his  long  tail,  like  a  serpent,  back  and  forward 
slowly  swing, 

While  he  kept  his  claws  a  workin',  fixin'  for  the 
deadly  spring! 

For  one  second  I  felt  dizzy,    felt  that    I  was   goin' 

wild 
An'  I  prayed  "Oh,  God  in  heaven!     Save,  oh  save 

my  darlin'  child!" 
Then  I  brought  my  good,  old  rifle  to  my  shoulder 

with  a  thump, 
Pulled  the  trigger  as  the  panther  gathered  up  his 

feet  to  jump! 

33 


GRANDFATHER'S  STORY. 

Right  behind  the  left  fore-shoulder,  through  its 
heart  my  bullet  sped, 

An'  with  one  fierce  scream  of  anger,  down  the 
beast  fell  quiverin',  dead! 

Then  how  [quickly  to  our  bosoms  we  both  clasped 
our  darlin'  boy, 

While  the  tears  ran  down  our  faces,  tears  of  thank- 
fulness an'  joy. 

Now  you  toddler,  grandma's  callin',  guess  perhaps 

she's  wantin'  me; 
Yes,  my  story  is  all  ended;  jump  right  down   from 

off  my  knee, 
An'  I'll  go  an'  see  what's  wantin',  an'  maybe  some 

other  time, 
I  will   tell    another  story  'f  I   can  make  it  work  in 

rhyme. 


34 


ANSWERING  PRAYER. 


OLD  Deacon  Jones  was  a  grave  old  man, 
With  a  sanctimonious  air, — 
A  firm  believer  in  clinging  faith, 

And  the  efficacy  of  prayer. 
Each  morning  and  eve  he  humbly  knelt 

And  loudly  prayed  for  the  poor, — 

That  all  their  needs  might  be  satisfied, 

And  the  wolf  kept  from  their  door. 

He  deemed  himself  a  benevolent  man, 

For  he  gave  from  his  ample  store 
A  goodly  sum  for  bibles  and  tracts 

To  be  sent  to  some  heathen  shore; 
But  he  thought  the  poor  in  his  neighborhood 

Had  enough  of  his  fostering  care, 
If  he,  each  night  on  his  bended  knees, 

Remembered  them  in  prayer. 

The  Widow  Smith  was  a  worthy  soul, 

Who  lived  in  a  cot  near  by; 
The  plainest  fare,  and  scanty  at  that, 

Was  the  best  she  could  supply; 
And  often  at  night  when  she  bent  her  knee 

By  her  humble  bed  to  pray, 
Her  tears  would  flow  at  the  bitter  thought 

She'd  no  food  for  the  following  day. 

35 


ANSWERING  PR  A  YER. 

She  could  look  across  to  the  Deacon's  house 

On  many  a  winter's  night, 
And  see,  through  the  glistening  window-panes, 

The  hearthstone  gleaming  bright; 
And  often  a  sigh  would  escape  her  lips 

As  she  thought  of  the  rich  man's  store, 
And  wondered  why  God  had  favored  him, 

And  made  her  so  miserably  poor. 

The  Deacon  had  a  mischievous  son, 

A  boy  by  the  name  of  Ned; 
He'd  but  slight  regard  for  his  father's  prayers, 

Thought  "Faith  without  works  is  dead;" 
And  oft  would  the  Deacon  sadly  sigh 

And  wipe  a  tear  from  his  face, 
As  he  prophesied  that  his  only  son 

Would  the  family  name  disgrace. 

One  night  while  the  Deacon  humbly  knelt. 

As  often  he'd  done  before, 
Ned  slyly  rose  from  his  bended  knees, 

And  cautiously  opened  the  door, 
Then  closed  it  again  and  betook  himself 

Down  the  outside  cellar  stair, 
To  see  'mong  the  good  things  stored  away, 

What  his  father  had  to  spare. 

He  rolled  a  barrel  of  potatoes  out. 

Then  next  a  delicious  ham, 
With  a  bushel  of  red-cheeked  apples  and 

A  jar  of  raspberry  jam. 

36 


ANSWERING  PRAYER. 

Adding  a  few  heads  of  cabbage  sound, 

He  loaded  all  into  the  cart 
And  yoked  up  the  oxen  before  it  when 

All  things  were  ready  to  start. 

The  Deacon  continued  most  earnestly 

To  pray  that  the  poor  might  be  blest 
With  food  and  with  raiment  comfortable, 

If  the  Father  in  heaven  thought  best. 
He  knew  not  that  Ned,  the  young  scapegrace, 

Had  silently  passed  through  the  door, 
For  never  such  act  of  irreverence, 

His  son  had  committed  before. 

The  Deacon  rose  from  his  bended  knees 

And  gazed  at  the  vacant  chair 
Where  lately  he'd  seen  his  son  kneel  down, 

But  no  Ned  was  kneeling  there; 
Then  he  heard  a  voice  in  the  gloom  outside 

Shouting  "Haw  there!  Git  up!    Gee!" 
And  he  spoke  to  his  wife  in  startled  tones, 

"Sophronia,  what  can  it  be?'' 

They  both  rushed  out  and  their  arms  flew  up 

In  a  gesture  of  surprise 
At  the  sight  they  saw  in  the  roadway  there, 

They  could  scarcely  believe  their  eyes! 
And  they  shouted,  both,  in  a  chorus  loud, 

"What  the  dogs  are  you  doing,  Ned? 
Come  back!     Do    you    hear?     Put  those  things 
away 

And  get  yourself  quickly  in  bed!" 
37 


ANSWERING  PRAYER. 

No  heed  paid  Ned  to  this  stern  command, 

As  on  through  the  dark  with  his  load, 
Toward  the  widow's  little  brown  cot, 

With  cheerful  footsteps  he  strode; 
But  he  shouted  back  these  words  to  them, 

That  rang  on  the  chill,  night  air: 
"I  am  helping  God  just  the  best   I  can 

To  answer  father's  prayer." 

The  Deacon  paused  in  thought,  and  scratched 

The  round,  bald  spot  on  his  head; 
Then  turning  to  his  meek-eyed  wife, 

"Sophronia, "  he  said, 
"I've  learned  a  lesson  from  Ned  to-night, 

I  think  I'll  not  soon  forget, — 
That  praying  for  the  poor  is  pretty  good, 

But  giving  is  better  yet!" 


38 


RIDING  DOWN  HILL. 


OH  what  brightly  glowing  pictures  of  our  happy 
childhood  days, 
Memory  paints  with  hand  artistic  and  spreads  out 

before  our  gaze! 
Scenes    of    innocent    enjoyment    our    enraptured 

visions  fill 

As  we   see  ourselves   as   children  riding  down  the 
snow-clad  hill. 

How  distinctly  we  remember  many  a  frosty  winter 

night, 
When  the  moon,   all    o'er    the    hillside,   poured  a 

flood  of  golden  light, 
And  the  crust-clad  meadow  glittered  like  a  frosted 

silver  sea, 
Dotted    here    and    there  with  shadows  from  some 

lonely,  leafless  tree. 

How  we  clambered  up  the  hillside  o'er  the  slippery, 

congealed  snow, 
While  the  frosty  night  air  painted  on  our  cheeks  a 

ruddy  glow, 
And    our    hearts    with    joy    o'erflowing,    knew    no 

heavy  weight  of  care, 
For  no  thoughts  of  sad  to-morrows  did  our  happy 

moments  share. 

39 


DOWN  HILL. 

Then  each  boy  his    hand-sled  mounted  and  made 

ready  for  the  start, 
And  behind  him  sat  the  maiden  who  was  nearest  to 

his  heart, 
With  her  little  hands,   like  vises,   clinging  closely 

to  his  arm, 
Trusting  in   his  skill  and  courage  to   protect    her 

from  all  harm. 

Down  the  glistening  hill  we  glided  like  an  arrow 

swiftly  sped, 
And  we  looked  on  him  with  envy,  who   was   riding 

just  ahead, 
But  our  envy  knew  no  hatred  toward  the  lucky  boy 

who  won, 
For  each  one  had  his  full  measure  of   the  grand, 

exciting  fun. 

Then  some  mischief-loving  urchin  quickly  turned 
his  sled  about, 

And  a  little  scream  of  terror  ended  in  a  laughing 
shout 

As  the  riders  quickly  tumbled  in  the  sudden  over- 
throw,— 

Legs  and  arms  in  chaos  sprawling  as  they  rolled 
upon  the  snow. 

There  were  Jane  and  Sue  and  Mary  and  a  host  I 
cannot  name; — 

How  their  coy,  coquettish  glances  set  our  youth- 
ful hearts  aflame! 

40 


RIDING  DOWN  HILL. 

And   our  fancy  fondly  pictured    happy    scenes    in 

later  life 
When  each  boy  would  call  his  sweetheart    by    the 

sacred  name  of  wife. 

But   I've    learned    that  disappointment  blasts   the 

fondest  hopes  of  youth, 
And  our  fancy's  brightest  pictures   often   hide  the 

plainest  truth; 
Youthful  hopes   and   youthful   fancies  and  youth's 

dreams  of  future  joys, 
Leave  us  when  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles  tell  us  we 

no  more  are  boys. 

Oh,  those  happy  days  have  vanished  never  to  re- 
turn again, 

And  the  boys  I  knew  in  childhood,  now  are  grown 
to  gray-haired  men; 

And  the  maidens,  once  our  sweethearts,  feel  their 
hearts  with  pleasure  glow 

When  they  tell  to  their  grandchildren  of  the  days 
of  long  ago. 


41 


WHAT  OLD  PETE  SAW  IN  THE  BOTTOM 
OF  THE  GLASS. 


IN  a  miserable  hut  near  the  end  of  the  street, 
Lived  a  wretched  old  man  and  they  called  him 

Old  Pete. 

Here  Pete  and  his  wife  lived  a  miserable  life, — 
Pete  was  fond  of  his  toddy  and  ill-used  his  wife. 
His  highest  ambition  in  this  world  of  sin, 
Was  to  drink  and  get  drunk  and  get  sober  again. 
But  Pete  and  wife  were  not  always  so  bad, 
Their  condition  not  always  so  wretchedly  sad. 
Old  Pete  and  his  wife  were  both  young    long    ago, 
And  happy  as  most  of  us  are  here  below; 
They  had  children  to  fondle — a  girl  and  a  boy, 
And    their    hearts    were    o'erflowing  with  pleasure 

and  joy. 

But  Pete  liked  his  cider,  and  thought  it  no  harm 
To  drink  it  at  night  when  he  came  from  the  farm. 
Then  after  awhile  he  conceived  it  no  sin, 
To  taste  stronger  drinks  such  as   brandy  and  gin, 
Till  his  appetite    strengthened    and    mastered   him 

quite, 

And  he  sat  in  the  tavern  almost  every  night, 
While    his    wife  and    his    children,    alone   in  their 

home, 
Waited  late  in  the  night  for  the  father  to  come. 

42 


WHAT  OLD  PETE  SA  W  IN  THE  GLASS. 

His  farm  was  neglected,  his  fences  fell  down, 
His  creditors  met  him  with  ill-concealed  frown; 
His  wife  was  discouraged,  his  children  no  more 
Were  petted  by  him  as  they  had  been  before. 
The  old  farm  was  sold,  and  the  money  all  went 
To  pay  up  the  landlord;  for  there  it  was  spent. 
Then    they  moved    in    the  shanty  we  spoke  of  at 

first; 
It  was  wretched    enough,    but   that    was    not    the 

worst. 

The  children,  neglected,  soon  sickened  and  died, 
And  the  wife,    broken-hearted,  soon  lay    by    their 

side. 
Good  men  shook    their   heads    and    said    nothing 

could  save 
Old    Pete;    he    would  fill   an  unblessed  drunkard's 

grave. 

One  night  he  reeled  up  to  the  bar  of  the  inn 
And  called  for  a  glass  of  his  favorite  gin. 
He  poured  out  the  horn  without  stopping  to  think, 
And  quickly  he  raised  the  vile  poison  to  drink; 
But  he  suddenly  stopped  in  a  startled  amaze! 
Something  there  in  the  glass  seemed  to    fasten  his 

gaze! 

Down,  deep  in  the  bottom  he  saw  such  a  sight! 
His  knees  bent  and  quivered  in  dreadful  affright! 
Way  down  in  the  bottom,  a  picture  he  saw 
More  lifelike  than  pencil  of  artist  could  draw! 
He  saw  there  his  mother  close  clasping  a  child; — 

43 


WHAT  OLD  PETE  SAW  IN  THE  GLASS. 

That  child  was  himself,  pure,  with  sin  undefiled. 
He  saw  her  kneel  down  and  ask  Heaven    to    guide 
In  the  strait  path  of  virtue,  the  child  by  her  side. 
The  scene  changed  again:  In  a  gaily  decked  room, 
With    hand    clasping    hand,    stood    a  bride  and  a 

groom, 

Himself  was  the  groom,  and  the  one  by  his  side 
Was    the   choice    of    young    manhood,     his    once 

happy  bride, 

Again  the  scene  changed:  A  girl  and  a  boy 
Clasped    their   arms    'round    his    neck,   filled    his 

heart  full  of  joy, 
While    his  wife   and    their    mother  stood    proudly 

close  by, 

A  smile  on  her  lips  and  love's  light  in  her  eye. 
The  scene  changed  again:  In  a  hut  small  and  rude. 
On  a  rickety  table,  two  small  coffins  stood. 
He  gazed  on  the  vision  with  agonized  stare! 
They  held  his  two  children  whom  rum  had  placed 

there! 
Again    the    scene    changed:    And    the  wife   of  his 

youth, 

An  angel  of  love  and  an  angel  of  truth, 
Lay  dying  before  him;  her  expiring  breath 
Breathing  prayers  for  her  husband,  loved  even  till 

death. 
Once  more  the  scene  changed:  And  he  saw   in    the 

glass 

What  appeared  to  his  vision  a  smoldering  mass 
Rising  up  from  the  bottom,  then  open  it  burst 

44 


WHAT  OLD  PETE  SAW  IN  THE  GLASS. 

And  hell  yawned  before  him — the  home  of  the  curst. 
He    could  see   from    its    depth    tortured    demons 

arise! 
He  could  hear  their  shrill  shrieks    rise    in    vain    to 

the  skies! 

He  could  see  their  wild  writhings  in   eternal  pain, 
And  hear  their  loud  pleadings  for  mercy  in  vain! 
He  flung  the  glass  from  him  and  rushed  from  the 

door, 
With  a  vow  to  his  God  there  to  enter  no  more! 

Old  Pete  kept    the    vow    which    he    uttered    that 

night, 

When  a  terrible  vision  arose  to  his  sight. 
He's  a  sober  man  now,  and  he  does  what  he  can 
To  reclaim  and  reform  every  rum-enslaved  man. 
Success  crowns  his  labors  wherever  he  goes, 
And  a  rich  harvest  blesses  the  good  seed  he  sows. 


45 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  STORY. 


DO  you  ask  why  I'm  sitting  so  lonely, 
On  this  stone  by  the  side  of  the  way? 
Do  you  wonder  why  I  am  sad-hearted 

When  all  nature  around  me  seems  gay? 
Do  you  ask  why  these  great  tears  of  sorrow 

Roll  down  from  my  age-sunken  eyes? 
Do  you  ask  why  my  deep-swelling  bosom 
Breathes  nothing  but  moaning  and  sighs? 

I'm  eighty  years  old  now,  or  over, 

I  think,  but  I  can't  rightly  say; 
Though  it  seems,  when  I  look  back  upon  it, 

To  be  hardly  more  than  a  day 
Since  the  time  when  I  stood  up  with  Betsey, 

An'  the  minister  made  her  my  wife; 
Oh,  that  day  was  the  best  and  the  proudest 

An'  happiest  day  of  my  life! 

I  was  poor  then,  and  so  too  was  Betsey; 

But  both  of  us  hearty  and  strong, 
And  willing  to  work  for  .each  other, 

And  each  help  the  other  along. 
I  worked  hard  and  laid  up  some  money, 

And  Betsey  was  saving  and  kind; 
And  I  think,  if  you'd  go  through  the  world,  sir, 

No  happier  couple  you'd  find. 

46 


THE  OLD  MAWS  STORY. 

Then  after  awhile,  we  had  children, — 

Three  of  them,  John,  William  and  James; 
And  I  tell  you  our  hearts  beat  with  gladness, 

When  we  looked  on  their  sweet,  childish  games. 
But  Jimmy,  he  always  was  feeble, 

And  puny  and  weak  for  a  child; 
And  I  thought  when  he  died,  that  poor  Betsey, 

And  I  too,  with  grief  would  go  wild. 

But  the  minister  spoke  words  of  comfort, 

And  told  us  that  God  willed  it  so, — 
That  Jimmy,  the  youngest  and  feeblest 

And  dearest,  should  be  first  to  go. 
Then  we  thought  of  our  other  two  children, 

And  thanked  God  we  still  had  them  left, 
While  we  thought  of  some  parents  we  knew  of, 

Death  had  of  their  children  bereft. 

Then  I  worked  hard  and  saved  ev'ry  penny, 

And  Betsey  she  worked  and  saved  too; 
She  patched  and  she  mended  my  garments, 

And  saved  me  from  purchasing  new. 
When  we  married,  we  hadn't  a  dollar, 

Nor  a  roof  except  heaven's  broad  dome; 
But  we  saved  ev'ry  cent  as  we  earned  it, 

Till  we'd  purchased  and  paid  for  a  home. 

Do  you  see  that  white  house  over  yonder, 
With  the  great  maple  trees  standing  by, 

And  that  neatly-trimmed  big  apple  orchard, 
And  the  red-painted  barn  standing  nigh? 

47 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  STOA'}  . 

There  are  two  hundred  acres  around  them, 
The  best  land  that  ever  was  ploughed; 

And  when  Betsey  and  I  knew  we  owned  it, 
You'd  better  believe  we  were  proud. 

Yes,  we  owned  that  big  farm  over  yonder, 

And  we  owed  not  a  penny  on  earth; 
Our  children  were  grown  up  and  married, — 

They  had  both  lived  with  us  since  their  birth. 
We'd  begun  to  grow  old,  I  and   Betsey, 

And  lame  in  our  backs  and  our  knees; 
So  I  rented  the  farm  to  our  children 

So  we  old  folks  could  live  at  our  ease. 

But  the  boys  they  both  grew  discontented, 

And  thought  they  were  having  it  hard; 
Though  I  found,  when  I  looked  in  their  stables, 

Their  labor  had  brought  them  reward. 
They  had  carriages  grand  and  fine  horses, 

Much  better  than  ever  I'd  had, 
And  plenty  of  cash  in  their  pockets, 

Though  the  times,  it  was  said,  were  quite  bad. 

Then  they  argued  with  me  and  their  mother, 

And  their  reasoning  seemed  good  and  fair: 
They  wanted  to  make  it  their  pleasure, 

To  make  our  old  age  free  from  care. 
They  said  they  would  care  for  us  kindly, 

And  make  our  old  age  full  of  joys; 
And  then,  in  a  moment  of  weakness, 

/  deeded  my  farm  to  my  boys. 
48 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  STORY. 

've  often  regretted  that  moment, 

But  I  believed  it  was  all  for  the  best, 
For  1  thought  it  would  give  me  and  Betsey, 

In  our  old  age,  more  quiet  and  rest. 
But  I  found  that  I  was  mistaken 

And  we'd  done  the  worst  thing  in  our  lives; 
For  my  boys,  though  I  think  they  meant  honest 

Were  governed  too  much  by  their  wi\tb 

Yes,  hardly  a  month  had  passed  over, 

Before  we  regretted  that  day; 
For  our  children  began  then  to  treat  us 

As  if  we  were  both  in  their  way. 
And  Betsey  she  felt  she  was  slighted, 

And  she  bowed  down  her  poor,  old,  gray  head;- 
Her  poor,  old  heart  broke  in  its  sorrow. 

And  in  less  than  a  year  she  was  dead. 

They  buried  her  up  in  the  churchyard; — 

Her  coffin  was  made  plain  and  cheap; 
Though  I  thought  that  it  might  have  been  nicer, 

'Twas  not  that  which  caused  me  to  weep: — 
'Twas  the  way  that  they  treated  their  mother 

Before  the  poor  woman  had  died; 
And  I  thought,  from  their  looks  and  their  actions, 

They  wished  I  was  laid  by  her  side. 

Perhaps  1  was  childish  and  fretful 

As  often  old  men  are,  they  say; 
But  they'd  scowl,  and  their  children  would  sauce  me 

Whenever  I  came  in  their  way. 

49 


THE  OLD  MAWS  STOAT. 

I  couldn't  put  up  with  such  treatment, 
And  in  very  plain  words  told  them  so; 

Then  they  flared  up  in  terrible  anger, 
And  cursed  me  and  told  me  to  go. 

I  picked  up  my  cane  and  my  bundle, 

And  sadly  limped  out  of  the  door; 
And  then  when  they  shut  the  door  on  me, 

I  cried  as  I'd  ne'er  cried  before. 
But  I  hope  that  their  children  won't  treat  them 

As  they  treated  Betsey  and  me; 
But  we  can't  tell  when  raising  our  children, 

What  trouble  and  grief  we  may  see. 

So  you've  heard  my  sad  story,  kind  stranger, 

And  know  why  I'm  bowed  down  with  grief; 
But  I'm  waiting  for  Heaven's  good  pleasure 

To  bring  to  me  death  and  relief. 
No  home  have  I  now  but  the  poorhouse, — 

No  food  but  the  coarsest  of  fare, — 
While  those  I  find  there  for  companions, 

Are  Misery,  Want  and  Despair. 

Now  give  me  a  lift,  will  you,  stranger? 

And  help  me  up  onto  my  feet. 
I'll  always  remember  you  kindly, 

Though  again  perhaps  never  we'll  meet. 
And  I  hope  that  my  children  will  prosper, 

Although  they  have  blasted  our  lives; 
And  I  hope  that  God  will,  in  His  mercy, 

Forgive  my  poor  boys  and  their  wives. 

50 


OLD  'BIJAH  DAY. 


o 


LD  'BIJAH  DAY  \vas  a  fine  old  man,. 

With  a  broad  and  smiling  face; 
His  heart  was  filled  full  of  charity 

And  affection  for  his  race. 
His  wife  and  he  lived  a  happy  life 

In  a  pleasant  country  town; 
An  Kden  where  all  was  peace  and  lover 

Was  their  cottage  small  and  brown. 

Old  'Bijah  Day  was  a  jolly  man, 

And  his  laugh  was  loud  and  clear; 
He  loved  a  joke  and  it  mattered  not 

Though  the  joke  might  cost  him  dear. 
When  trouble  came  he  would   meet   it   square 

With  a  smile  instead  of  frown; 
For  he  always  looked  on  the  brightest  side 

And  laughed  his  troubles  down, 

Old  'Bijah  Day  was  a  kind  old  man, 

And  he  loved  to  help  the  poor; 
No  needy  one  would  he  turn  away 

Unaided  from  his  door. 
He  loved  to  dry  the  widows'  tears, 

And  to  hush  the  orphans'  cry; 
No  hungry  ones  would  be  left  unfed 

When  Old  'Bijah  Day  was  nigh. 

51 


OLD  'BIJAH  DAY 

Old  'Bijah  Day  was  a  Christian  man, 

Quite  old-fashioned  in  his  way; 
The  creed  he  taught  by  his  word  and  acts, 

Was  to  work  as  well  as  pray. 
His  doctrine  was  of  the  broadest  kind, 

In  a  few  short  words  expressed: 
'Twas  this:  "In  helping  a  needy  one, 

Man  is  serving  God  the  best." 

When  'Bijah  died,  though  he  left  no  wealth 

In  glittering  gold  and  lands, 
His  name,  enrolled  with  earth's  noblest  ones, 

In  brightest  letters  stands. 
Around  his  bier  came  the  worthy  poor. 

And  affection's  tears  they  shed: 
While  from  each  heart  rose  the   plaintive   wail 

"Our  best  earthly  friend  /V  <l«ul .  " 


12 


IT  IS  A  LONG  LANE  THAT  HAS  NO 
TURN. 


THOUGH  clouds  may  mount  up   the  horizon. 
And  shut  out  the  sun's   gladdening   light, — 
Though  storms  may  be  beating  and  howling, 
And  bright  day  seem  turned  into  night: — 
Though  friends  may  present  the  cold  shoulder^ 

And  all  our  kind  offices  spurn, 
These  things  can't  continue  forever; — 
'Tis  a  long  lane  that  has  not  a  turn. 

Misfortunes  may  strive  to  o'erwhelmyou, 

The  world  may  maliciously  frown, 
The  Fates  may  conspire  against  you 

To  crush  you  and  fasten  you  down; — 
But  if  you  fail  not  in  your  courage, 

And  keep  your  way  steady  and  stern, 
You'll  find  there  is  truth  in  the  adage — 

"  'Tis  a  long  lane  that  has  not  a  turn." 

Though  fortune  seem  bound  to  elude  you, 

And  all  your  hard  toil  seem  in  vain,— 
Though  even  your  loftiest  efforts 

Seem  nothing  of  good  to  attain, — 
Keep  striving,  heroically  striving, 

Preferment  and  honor  to  earn, — 
And  while  striving,  don't  fail  to  remember 

'Tis  a  long  lane  that  has  not  a  turn. 
53 


IT  IS  A  LONG  LANE  THAT  //.IS  \O  TURN. 

When  evil  and  wrong  seem  triumphant, 

And    right    seems    crushed    down    'neath    their 

sway, — 
When  deeds  of  dishonor  and  darkness, 

Are  done  in  the  light  of  the  day, — 
Then  battle  the  stronger  for  virtue; — 

Its  ashes  will  rise  from  the  urn, 
And  right  will  once  more  be  triumphant: 

'Tis  a  long  lane  that  has  not  a  turn. 

When  rulers  wax  proud  and  oppressive, 

And  subjects  for  liberty  groan, — 
When  might  is  the  law  of  the  nation, 

And  Tyranny  sits  on  the  throne, — 
Then  up  and  to  arms  for  your  freedom: 

Let  Liberty's  flames  brightly  burn, 
And  down  with  the  haughty  oppressor! 

'Tis  a  long  lane  that  has  not  a  turn. 


SHOW  PITY. 

PITY  the  fallen  man,— - 
Judge  not  in  wrath; 
Drive  him  not  further  down 

Sin's  thorny  path. 
Though  he  be  stained  with  crime, 

Placed  'neath  law's  ban, 
He  is  thy  brother  still — 
Thy  fellow-man. 

Pity  the  fallen  girl; 

Flaunt  not  the  shame 
That  with  the  darkest  taint, 

Blackens  her  name. 
Drawn  by  the  tempter's  wiles, 

Poor  girl,  she  fell! 
You  might  have  fallen  too, 

No  one  can  tell. 

Pity  the  fallen  one, 

Woman  or  man; 
Help  the  unfortunate 

All  that  you  can. 
Christ  to  the  erring  one, 

In  days  of  yore, 
Said  "I  condemn  thee  not: 

Go,  sin  no  more." 

55 


SHOW  PITY. 

Lift  up  the  fallen  ones, — 

Wash  off  the  stains, — 
Soothe  with  sweet,  kindly  words, 

The  heart's  great  pains. 
Hold  up  the  feeble  ones, 

Their  footsteps  guard: 
God  will  thy  charity 

Amply  reward. 


56 


THE  OLD-TIME  SPELLING-SCHOOL. 


J^  I  MS  the  early  evening  hour,  and  the  moon- 
J_  light  shining  'round, 

Flashes  from  the  bright  frost  crystals  on  the  snow- 
enshrouded  ground — 

Casting  shadows  weird  and  ghost-like  where  the 
bare  and  leaf-stripped  trees 

Wave,  with  moaning  sound,  their  branches  in  the 
chilly  winter  breeze. 

But  the  picture  is  enlivened  by  the  troops  of   girls 

and  boys, 
Hurrying    'long    the    snowy    road  with  laugh   and 

joke  and  song  and  noise; — 
Toward  the  time-worn   district   schoolhouse  speed 

their  footsteps  quick  and  light, 
And    their   hearts  with  joy  are   bounding  for  'tis 

spelling-school  to-night. 

Soon  the  old  schoolroom  is  crowded, — every  seat 

is  occupied, 
And  about  the  stove  is  standing  quite  a  group  of 

youths  beside. 
All  are  chatting,  joking,   laughing,   making  almost 

bedlam  din, 

Till  the  teacher's  ferule  raps  the  time  for  spelling 
to  begin. 

57 


THE  OLD-TIME  SPELLING-SCHOOL. 

Then    two    persons  are     selected    by    the     crowd 

assembled  there, 
To  be  leaders  in  the  contest  in  which  all  may  have 

a  share; 
Then  the  leaders  take  position  and  the  choosing  is 

begun,  -- 
All    are    drawn  on,    from    the    oldest    even   to  the 

youngest  one. 

Husbands,  wives  and  sons  and  daughters   'gainst 

each  other  are  arrayed 
In  the  intellectual  conflict  where  their  powers  will 

be  displayed. 
What  a  motley   host  they   number, — tender  youth 

and  hoary  age, 
From    the    district    ignoramus  even   to  the  village 

sage. 

Then,  with  book  in  hand,  the  teacher  names  some 
simple,  easy  words, 

Such  as  bear  and  wolf  and  lion,  mastiff,  eagle, 
beasts  and  birds. 

These,  of  course,  are  spelled  correctly;  not  a  sin- 
gle one  is  missed 

Till  he  turns  the  well-worn  pages  and  selects  a 
harder  list. 

Then  the  hearts  begin  to  tremble;  fear  is   pictured 

on  each  face, 
For  the  first  to   miss  in   spelling  will   be  branded 

with  disgrace, 

58 


THE  OLD-TIME  SPELLING  SCHOOL. 

And  to  add  to   his  confusion,   his   discomfiture  to 

crown, 
He  must  vacate   his    position   and   ingloriously  sit 

down. 

One  by  one  they  fall  like  soldiers  when   the  battle 

rages  hot, — 
Now   a   whole    platoon    is    vanquished  when    the 

teacher  mentions  "yacht;" 
Then  a  slaughter  such  as  seldom  on   the  battlefield 

is  seen, 
Happens  when  they   stake  their  valor   'gainst  the 

awkward  word  "demesne." 

But  the  strife  can't  last  forever.     Soon  the  last  one 

takes  his  seat, 
And  the  victory  for  the  teacher  o'er  the  spellers  is 

complete; 
And  with  ardor  unabated,   girls  and  women,    boys 

and  men 
All  declare  some  other  evening  they  will  try  it  o'er 

again. 

Then    each    bashful    youth    approaches   where   his 

blushing  sweetheart  stands, 
Drawing  on   her  woolen  mittens  o'er  her  chubby, 

dimpled  hands. 
And  he  crooks  his  elbow  to  her,  speaks   in  accents 

low  and  light, 
"May  I   have  the   pleasure,   Mary,   to    escort    you 

home  to-night?" 

59 


THE  SCHOOLMA'AM'S  CONFESSION. 

)r  I  MS  not  all  true  what  people  say 

J_      About  our  grand  profession 
I'm.  going  to  give  it  all  away; — 

Just  list  to  my  confession. 
Our  life  is  not  a  life  of  ease, 

Unmarked  by  care  and  trouble: 
We  have  the  district  all  to  please, — 

Which  makes  our  labors  double. 

If  there  were  one  in  all  this  world. 

Whom  I  supremely  hated, 
On  whom  my  vengeance  would  be  hurled, 

Until  it  should  be  sated, — 
I'd  ask  no  deeper  sting  of  woe 

With  which  my  hate  could  reach  her, 
Than  make  her  take  some  school  I  know. 

And  always  be  its  teacher. 

I've  been  a  schoolma'am  many  years, 

An  honest  living  earning: 
I've  kissed  the  mothers'  dirty  dears, 

Without  a  sign  of  spurning. 
I've  praised  each  doting  father's  child, 

As  finest  in  the  nation, 
And  held  it  on  my  lap  and  smiled, 

And  lied  like  all  creation. 

60 


"Tve  been  a  school '»ia'am  many  years.' 


THE  SCHOOLMA'AM'S  CONFESSION. 

I've  "boarded  "round"  from  place  to  place, 

In  storms  and  pleasant  weather, 
And  slept  with  Jane  and  Nell  and  Grace, 

All  in  one  bed  together. 
I've  dined  at  tables  covered  o'er 

With  dainties  of  the  nicest, 
And  tables  also,  where  the  store 

Was  far  from  being  choicest. 

I've  slapped  the  hands  and  boxed^the  ears- 

Of  disobedient  scholars; 
I've  caught  the  sly,  mischievous  dears, 

And  shook  them  by  their  collars; 
I've  felt  the  censures  and  the  hates 

Of  fathers  and  of  mothers, 
But  always  found  strong  advocates 

Among  the  older  brother?. 

I've  tried  to  help  whate'er  I  could, 

The  rising  generation, 
And  hope  I've  done  some  little  good 

For  small  remuneration. 
My  hair  will  soon  be  growing  gray, 

And  single  still  I  tarry; 
If  some  Professor'd  come  this  way 

And  ask  me,  I  would  marry. 


62 


IF  THINGS  WERE  AS  WE'D  LIKE  THEM. 

IF  all  things  in  this  world  of  ours 
Were  just  as  we'd  like  them  to  be, 
The  weeds  would  be  all  changed  to  flowers, 
And  sunshine  forever  we'd  see. 

No  eye  would  be  dimmed  with  a  tear, 
No  heart  would  be  heavy  with  grief, 

No  sighing  nor  groaning  we'd  hear, 
The  poor  would  not  beg  for  relief. 

The  haughty  would  never  look  down 
In  scorn  on  the  lowly  and  weak; 

The  smile  would  replace  the  dark  frown, 

And  shame  would   ne'er  redden  the   cheek. 

Then  friend  would  be  faithful  to  friend, 
Misfortune  would  never  be  known, 

And  honors  true  worth  would  attend, — 
The  cottage  be  peer  to  the  throne. 

Then  suffering,  sorrow  and  pain 
And  evil  would  never  have  birth; 

This  life  would  be  free  from  all  stain, 
And  heaven  be  here  upon  earth. 


A  SCHOOL  REMINISCENCE. 


J /T~^\VAS  a  cloudy  day  in  autumn, 

_L      And  the  raindrops'  pattering  sound, 
With  the  low  wind's  solemn  moaning, 

Added  to  the  gloom  around. 
I  was  sitting  in  my  schoolroom 

All  alone,  for  school  was  o'er, 
And  my  head  was  aching  badly, 

And  my  heart  felt  sad  and  sore. 

Something  seemed  to  be  the  matter, — 

Everything  seemed  going  wrong: 
Naught  but  trouble  and  vexation 

Had  I  known  the  whole  day  long 
Pupils  seemed  to  be  rebellious, 

Seemed  inclined  to  disobey; 
Hence  I,  tired  and  disheartened, 

Closed  the  labors  of  the  day. 

While  I  sat  in  sorrow  brooding, 

And  with  aching  heart  and  head, 
Suddenly  I  heard  the  accents 

Of  a  childish  voice  that  said: 
"Teacher,  tell  Grace  what's  the  matter: 

Tell  her  why  you  feel  so  sad;  — 
Is  it  'cause  we've  been  so  naughty? 

Is  it  cause  we've  acted  bad?  ' 

64 


A  SCHOOL  REMINISCENCE. 

Then  I  turned  and  saw  beside  me 

Little  Gracie's  childish  form, 
And  upon  my  cheek  she  planted 

Childhood's  kiss  so  sweet  and  warm. 
Then  the  little  one  continued, — 

"Teacher,  we  feel  awful  bad; 
All  the  scholars  feel  so  sorry 

'Cause  we've  made  you  look  so  sad; 

"And  they've  sent  me  in  to  tell  you 

That  we  won't  do  so  no  more, 
But  we'll  try  to  be  good  always, 

As  we  used  to  be  before.  " 
Then  she  twined  her  small  arms  tender, 

'Round  my  neck  with  close  embrace, 
And  I  saw  the  bright  tears  sparkle 

On  her  sweet  and  lovely  face. 

Close  I  pressed  her  to  my  bosom, 

Kissed  her  darling,  upturned  face, 
And  a  blessing  softly  whispered 

On  the  little  angel  Grace. 
Then  the  clouds  of  sorrow  scattered; — 

All  seemed  sunshine  overhead, 
And  the  pain  that  had  oppressed  me, 

Vanquished  from  my  heart  and  head. 


65 


OLD  FRIENDS. 

friends  are  like  the  dear,  old  friends- 
The  old  friends  tried  and  true, 
Who  stood  by  us  in  bygone  years, 

When  friends  were  only  few: — 
Whose  cheering  words  and  kindly  hands, 

Our  burdens  helped  to  bear; — 
Whose  hearts  in  sympathy  were  stirred, 
Our  joys  and  griefs  to  share. 

No  friends  are  like  the  dear  old  friends; — 

God's  blessings  on  them  rest! 
Though  later  friends  may   share  our  hearts, 

We  love  the  old  friends  best. 
They  stood  by  us  when  skies  were  clear, — 

They  stood  by  us  in  storm: 
Time  lessens  not  our  love  for  them, 

And  theirs  remains  as  warm. 

No  friends  are  like  the  dear,  old  friends: 

New  ones  may  prove  as  kind, 
But  truer  ones  than  those  of  old, 

We  know  we'll  never  find. 
We'll  not  forget  the  dear,  old  friends, 

While  God  shall  give  us  breath: 
They  stood  by  us  through  weal  and  woe, 

We'll  stand  by  them  till  death. 

66 


I  TOLD  YOU  SO." 


THE  poet  \Yhittier  has  said, 
(Those  woe-fraught  words  I've  often  read), 
"Of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 
The  saddest  are  'It  might  have,  beenl'" 

But  I  know  words — words  no  less  sad, 
Words  which  would  make  an  angel  mad, 

Or  a  saint's  eyes  with  anger  glow: 

These  are  the  words.  —  "/  told  you  sol" 

We  have  some  self-styled  prophets  now, 

(At  least  prescience  they  avow), 
Who  prophesy  with  solemn  face, 

After  the  event  has  taken  place. 

Unlike  the  seers  of  olden  time, 

We  read  of  in  the  book  sublime, 
Coming  events  they  fail  to  show, 

But  say,  when  past,  "7  told  you  so!" 

When  one  is  doing  all  he  can 

To  make  success  of  some  pet  plan, 

And  only  meets  with  overthrow, 

These  seers  will  say,  "I  lold  you  so!'" 

67 


"/  TOLD  you  so." 

No  matter  what  you  undertake, 
If  you  a  grand  success  do  make, 

These  seers  will  disappointment  show, 
And  sneer,  "It  only  happened  so!" 

Let  woman  fall  from  her  high  place, 
This  same  foul  fiend,  with  doleful  face, 

Will  shake  his  head  in  mocking  woe, 
And  sighing  say,  "/  told  you  so! ' 

Let  scandal  smirch  the  fairest  name, 
And  crown  the  innocent  with  shame, 

Those  seers  will  shout  with  eyes  aglow, 
"I  knew  'twould  be!     I  told  you  so!" 

Though  never  the  first  warning  word 
Of  prophecy  from  them  we  heard, 

When  failure  comes  in  overflow, 
They  still  insist,  "Itold  you  so!" 

Failure  is  hard  enough  to  bear 
Even  when  friends  our  sorrows  share; 

But  harder  still  misfortune's  blow 
Falls  when  they  say,  "7  told  you  sc!" 

Oh,  would  some  dire  misfortune  fall 

On  the  whole  horde,  and  crush  them  all 

Down  in  the  depths  of  fell  despair, 
And  ever  keep  them  prisoned  there, 

This  world  would  never  shed  a  tear, 
Nor  bow  in  grief  above  their  bier; 

68 


"/  TOLD  YOU  SO." 

But  joy  in  the  grand  overthrow 
Of  all  who  whine,  "/  told  you  so!" 

Methinks  when  life  to  them  is  spent, 
And  they  to  fearful  doom  are  sent, 

We'll  hear  them  howl  in  deepest  woe, 
; '/  told  you  so!    I  told  you  so! ' ' 


OSCULATION. 


**  T    SAW  a  word  the  other  day, " 
J.    I  heard  Kate  to  her  lover  say, 
"And  what  it  means  I  do  not  know, 
If  you  can  tell  me,  please  do  so: — 

'Twas  Osculation." 

Ned  turned  to  her  in  mute  surprise, 
A  twinkle  gleaming  in  his  eyes; 
Then  said,  "I'll  try,  my  dearest  Kate, 
The  meaning  to  communicate 

Of  Osculation." 

"Just  place  your  lips  as  I  place  mine, — 
Yourself  into  my  arms  resign, 
And  let  our  lips  meet  in  a  kiss — 
One  long,  sweet,  lingering  smack  of  bliss, - 
That's  Osculation. " 

She  yielded  with  a  queenly  grace, 
And  then  for  full  a  minute's  space, 
He  held  her  to  his  manly  breast 
While  both  their  lips  were  closely  pressed 
In  Osculation. 

And  then  the  blushing  maiden  said, 
"I'm  so  forgetful  you  know,  Ned, 
I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  repeat 
The  meaning,  every  time  we  meet, 

Of  Osculation.  ' 

70 


THE  SOCIETY  QUEEN. 


IN  costliest  garments  arrayed, 
From  crown  to  the  tip  of  her  shoe, 
Each  part  of  apparel  displayed, 

Is  of  the  most  fashionable  hue. 
Her  dress  I  won't  try  to  describe, 

For  my  powers  descriptive  would  fail; 
And  I'll  venture  on  no  diatribe 

On  the  length  of  her  train  or  hsr  trail. 

Her  hair  is  the  envy  of  all, 

So  wondrously  long  and  profuse, 
'Twould  cover  her  form  like  a  shawl, 

If  put  to  that  excellent  use: — 
Her  hair?    It  is  her  hair,  of  course, 

Though  not  all  grown  from  her  own  head: 
She  paid  for  it  from  her  own  purse, 

(That's/what  is  maliciously  said). 

Her  eyes  are  as  black  as  the  night, 

They  shine  with  effulgence  their  own; 
No  ray  from  the  soul  sheds  its  light, 

For  of  soul  the  proud  creature  has  none. 
Her  cheeks  blush  with  powder  and  paint, 

Her  lips  wear  the  en  regie  smile, 
Her  teeth  without  blemish  or  taint 

Are  of  the  most  exquisite  style. 

71 


THE  SOCIETY  QUEI.\ 

Her  bosom  voluptuously  swells 

With  cotton  and  whalebone  and  stays; — 
Its  symmetry  vastly  excels 

All  art  which  the  sculptor^displays. 
The  distance  about  her  small  waist, 

Is  the  length  of  a  gentleman's  arm; — 
(If  the  arm  of  a  true  man  were  there  placed, 

It  would  add  very  much  to  the  charm) ! 

Her  hands  alabaster  would  shame, 

So  delicate,  white  and  so  trim: 
Her  lily-white  fingers  the  same, 

Are  artistically  tapered  and  slim. 
Her  fingers  with  jewels  are  graced — 

A  diamond,  a  ruby,  a  pearl 
On  the  slender  fingers  are  placed 

To  set  a  fop's  brain  in  a  whirl. 

Her  feet — but  my  pen  here  must  stay:  — 

Enough,  they  are  what  they  should  be;     • 
Of  them  I  but  little  can  say, 

For  little  of  them  I  can  see. 
She  is  courted  by  all  in  the  land, 

And  wants  but  one  requisite  part: — 
She  is  beautiful,  graceful  and  grand, 

But  lacks  that  essential — a  heart. 


72 


"She  can  leach  the  lit  lie  children 
To  be  firm  and  brave  and  true." 


WOMAN'S  MISSION. 


THOUGH  she  may  not  in  the  battle 
Bravely  lead  men  to  the  fight, 
Though  she  may  not  wield  the  saber 

For  the  right  against  the  might; 
She  can  hover  near  the  bedside 

Where  the  wounded  soldier  lies; 
She  can  cheer  his  dying  moments, 
Point  him  to  the  better  skies. 

Though  she  may  not  guide  the  voyage 

Of  the  staunch  old  ship  of  state, 
Steer  it  from  the  rocks  and  breakers, 

Where  its  foes  in  ambush  wait; 
She  may  wield  a  greater  influence 

Over  those  who  rule  the  land; 
She  may  be  the  silent  power 

That  shall  nerve  the  statesman's  hand. 

Though  she  may  not  in  the  councils 

Of  the  nation  raise  her  voice; 
Though  she  may  not  by  their  ballots, 

Be  proclaimed  the  people's  choice;  - 
She  can  teach  the  little  children 

To  be  firm  and  brave  and  true, — 
True  to  manhood,  God  and  country:  — 

More  than  this  no  man  can  do. 

74 


WOMAN'S  MISSION. 

Though  she  may  not  from  the  pulpit, 

Speak  the  words  of  truth  and  love, 
Warning  men  of  death  and  judgment, 

Pointing  them  to  God  above; 
She  can  speak  to  some  poor  sinner, 

Tell  him  Christ  for  him  was  given, — 
She  may, — by  some  word  well  spoken, 

\Yin  a  soul  for  God  and  heaven. 

In  tin;  battle,  in  the  pulpit, 

In  the  councils  of  the  land, 
On  Fame's  high  and  dizzy  summit, 

Woman's  form  may  never  stand; 
But  more  holy  is  her  mission, — 

Noblest  work  that  God  has  given,-*— 
Hers  to  lift  with  hands  so  tender, 

Our  poor  world  up  nearer  heaven. 


75 


GRANDFATHER'S    CHRISTMAS    STORY. 


COME  to  me,  my  little  grandchild,  climb   right 
up  on  my  old  knee, 
An'  I'll  tell  my  boy  a  story  of  the   times  that  used 

to  be, 
When  your  gran'ther  was  a  toddler  just   about  as 

big  as  you, 

An'  as  full  of  fun  and  mischief,  an'  about  as  cun- 
nin'  too. 

S'pose  you're  thinkin'  of  the  stockin's  you'll  be 
hangin'  up  to-night, 

An 'what  Santa  Claus  will  put  there  'twixt  this 
time  an'  mornin'  light. 

'Twas  the  same  with  your  old  gran'ther;  when  the 
Christmas  morn  came  'round, 

How  I'd  s'arch  my  little  stockin's,  glad  for  any- 
thing I  found. 

Santa  Claus  was  very  sparin'  of  the  things   he   giv' 

to  me, 
For  my  mother  was  a  widow  [an'  as   poor  as  poor 

could  be. 
Santa  seemed  to  think  that  poor  folks  didn't  want 

no  Christmas  feast, 
So  his  choicest  gifts  he  lavished  where  they  needed 

'em  the  least. 

76 


GRANDFATHER'S  CHRISTMAS  STORY. 

I  remember  one  cold   Christmas  Eve  nigh   eighty 

years  ago; 
How  the  bleak  winds  howled  an'  whistled  an'  piled 

up  the  drifts  of  snow, 
An'  the  frost  came  creepin',  creepin'  through   the 

windows  an'  the  door, 
An'  the  cold    came   workin'    upward    through    the 

cracks  in  the  old  floor. 

We  were  sittin',  me  an'   mother,    close   beside  the 

old  fireplace, 
An'    the    firelight    showed    the   tear-drops    shinin' 

there  upon  her  face; 
An'  she  put  her  arm  around  me,  hugged  me  closely 

to  her  side 
While  she  told   me   of  her  trouble  an'   the  reason 

why  she  cried. 

Twas  a  dreary  time  for  poor  folks,  for  the  seasoned 

been  so  dry 
That  the  prices  of  provisions  had  run  up   so  awful 

high: 
So  we  had  to  stay  our  stomachs  with  the    plainest 

kind  of  fare, — 
There  was  lots  of  others  like   us,    hadn't    anything 

to  spare. 

We  had  used  up  all  our  flour  and    the    last,    poor 

slice  of  meat, 
An'    starvation  seemed  the    next    thing,    for    we'd 

nothing  more  to  eat; 

77 


GRANDFATHER'S  CHKISTM.IS  STORY. 

An'  our  wood  pile  too  had  vanished;  the  last  stick 

was  burnin'  low, 
'Twas   just    fallin'    into   embers    with  a  flickerin', 

sickly  glow. 

I  was  but  a  little  toddler,   but   I  felt  my   mother's 

grief, 
An'  was  angry  that  the  rich   folks  didn't  bring   us 

some  relief; 
An'  I  recollect  a  sayin'  that  I  believed  God   wasn't 

good, 
Or  He'd  send  some  meat   an'  flour,  or  at  least  a 

load  of  wood. 

Then   I    thought    perhaps    old   Santa  Claus  might 

then  be  on  his  way, 
For  he'd  lots  of  work  before  him,  an'  'twould  soon 

be  Christmas  Day; 
An'  I  thought  he'd  be  so  busy  that  perhaps  he'd  go 

right  by, 
For  our  cabin  was  so  little   it   might   fail    to    catch 

his  eye. 

Then  I  whispered  to  my  mother  that  we'd  both  get 

on  our  knees, 
An'  we'd  pray  to  God  above  us,  an'  we'd  ask  Him 

if  He'd  please 
Send  old  Santa  Claus  with  flour  an'  a  little   bit   o' 

meat, 
For  we  both  were    very  hungry,    an'  had   nothin' 

here  to  eat. 

78 


GRANDFATHER'S  CHRISTMAS  STORY. 

Then   we  both  knelt   down   together,   right  beside 

my  mother's  chair, 
An'  my  mother's  voice  it  trembled   while  she   said 

an  earnest  prayer, — 
Prayed  to  God   if  'twas   His  pleasure,    He    would 

send  us  food  to  eat, 
While  I  knelt  by  her  an'  listened  for   the    sound  of 

Santa's  feet. 

Soon  I  heard  the  sleigh-bells  jinglin'   an'  in   jest  a 

minute  more, 
Up  there  came  a  great,  big  sleigh-load  an'  stopped 

just  outside  the  door, 
An'  a  lot  of  our  good  neighbors  with  their  faces 

beamin'  bright, 
Came    a    rushin'  in    an'   sayin'  they  had  come   to 

spend  the  night. 

Each  one  had  a  pail  or  basket  filled    chuck   full   of 

somethin'  good, 
An'  besides,  a  great,  big  sleigh-load  of  the  nicest, 

dryest  wood. 
These,  they  said,  were  meant  for  mother,  but   they 

brought  some  things  for  me, — 
Candies,  cakes  an'  toys  an'  apples,  nicest   things  a 

boy  could  see. 

Santa  Glaus,  they  said,  had  sent    them, — couldn't 

come,  himself,  that  way, 
For    he'd    lots   of  homes    to    visit    an'   git    'round 

before  'twas  day. 

79 


GRANDFATHERS  CHRISTMAS  STORY. 

Then  I  knew  that  God   had   told   old  Santa  Claus 

to  send  them  there; 
He  had  heard  my  mother's  prayin',  sent  an  answer 

to  her  prayer. 

Then  they  set  their  pails  an'  baskets  in  a  row  upon 

the  floor: — 
Such  a  lot  of  nice  provisions  we  had   never  owned 

before. 
There  was  meat  an'  flour  an'  'taters,  an'  a  nice,  fat 

turkey  too, 
'Nough  to  last  me  an'  my  mother  all  the  long,  cold 

winter  through. 

But  I  wondered  why  my  mother  sat  an'  cried  'most 

all  the  night, 
When  7  couldn't  keep  from  laughin'  for   my   heart 

it  felt  so  light; 
So  I  asked  her  in  a  whisper,  an'  she  answered  me, 

"My  boy, 
'Tis   not  grief  that   brings  these   tear-drops;  I  am 

cryin'  now  for  joy." 

But  you're  sleepy,  little  toddler,  an'  'tis   time  you 

are  in  bed 
An'   a   dreamin'    of   to-morrow — bless   your  little, 

curly  head! 
An'  I  rather  guess  that  Santa  Claus  will  not  forget 

to  come, 
For  he's  partial  to  the  children   when   grandfather 

helps  him  some. 


A  RETROSPECT. 


IN  my  easy  chair  I'm  sitting  on  this  stormy,  win- 
ter night, 

Heeding  not  the  wind's  wild  howling  nor  the  snow- 
drifts cold  and  white; 
For  within  my  home  the  firelight  gleams  with  warm 

and  cheerful  glow, 

As  my  memory  fondly  pictures  happy  scenes  of 
long  ago. 

How  I  love  to  fondly,  linger,  gazing  on  the  pic- 
ture fair, 

Noting  well-remembered  faces  that  I  see  depicted 
there, — 

Scenes  of  childhood,  long-forgotten,  out  from 
memory's  storehouse  rise, 

Like  a  panoramic  vision  pass  before  my  mental 
eyes. 

Now  I  see  the  village  schoolhouse  with  its  dingy 
walls  and  floor, 

And  the  children's  forms  there  seated,  slowly  con- 
ning lessons  o'er; 

And  I  see  the  teacher  stalking  'long  the  aisles,  with 
frowning  look, 

Watching  that  no  careless  urchin  raise  his  eyes  up 
from  his  book. 
81 


A  KETKOSPECT. 

While  I  closely  scan  the   picture   memory   plainly 

paints  for  me, — 
How  my  heart  with  feeling   pulsates  at  the  faces 

there  I  see, — 
Faces  ne'er  to  be  forgotten,  names  I  do   remember 

well, 
Scenes  of  sunny,  happy  childhood,    long   will   they 

in  memory  dwell. 

Now  I  hear  the  master  speaking,  "Boys  and  girls 

may  have  recess," 
And  with  hurrying  feet,    the  children    through  the 

door  with  ardor  press 
Out    upon   the  ample  playground— mingled    mass 

of  girls  and  boys — 
Shouting,     running,    playing,    laughing, — there    is 

music  in  the  noise. 

At  the  door  the  teacher  loiters,  smiling  on  their 
happy  play, — 

Dreaming  dreams  of  bonny  childhood  when  he  was 
young  as  they; 

Yet  he  notes  the  fleeting  minutes  when  their  play- 
time will  be  o'er, 

And  the  jingling  bell  shall  call  them  back  to  books 
and  slates  once  more. 

But  a  tear-drop  dims  my   vision,    and    I  sadly  bow 

my  head, 
For  there  comes  another  vision,    and    I    see    some 

loved  ones  dead; 

82 


A  REl^ROSPECT. 

And  I  see  the  village   churchyard  with  each   little,, 

grass-decked  mound, 
Where  repose   the   silent  sleepers  waiting  for   the 

last  trump's  sound. 

Ah,  those  days  are  gone  forever.  Now  my  face 
shows  lines  of  care, 

And  1  know  that  threads  of  silver  mingle  thickly  in; 
my  hair; 

But  my  heart  is  young  as  ever,  and  I  feel  its  throb- 
bing wild 

As  I,  in  the  fancy  picture,  see  myself  again  a  child. 


83 


MATRIMONY. 

LONG  ages  ago  when  this  old   earth   was  new 
And  life  in  the  world  was  created, — 
When  of  animate  things  which    the  vision  could 

view, 

"Man,  alone  of  them  all,  was  not  mated; 
Then  Adam  complained  that  his  heart  felt  so  sore, 

(Who  wouldn't  complain  that  is  human)j 
Th^t  life  at  its  best  would  be  naught  but  a  bore, 
Unblest  by  the  love  of  a  woman. 

The  Creator  was  kind,  and  He  thought  of  a  plan 

To  ease  Adam's  heart  of  its  sorrow: 
So  He  put  him  asleep,  took  a  rib  of  the  man, 

And  woman  was  formed  ere  the  morrow. 
Then  He  brought  her  to  Adam  that  he   might  per- 
ceive 

The  goodliest  thing  yet  created, 
When  Adam  in  rapture  pronounced  her  his  Eve, 

And  rejoiced  that  at  length  he  was  mated. 

Then  Cupid  went  forth  with  his  quiver  and  bow, 

'Mong  the  people  of  every  nation: 
Neither  wealthy  nor  poor,  neither  lofty  nor  low 

Were  missed  in  his  grand  visitation 
Then  close   on  the  heels   of   young    Cupid,    there 

came 

Hymen,  bearing  his  flower-decked  halter, 
84 


MATRIMONY. 

The  victims  of  Cupid's  sharp  arrows  to  claim, 
And  lead  stricken  ones  to  the  altar. 

The  fashion  that  thus  in  the  garden  begun, 

For  opposite  sexes  to  marry, 

Has  spread  far  and  wide,  till   each  land  'neath   the 
sun 

The  custom  continues  to  carry. 
The  high  and  the  low,  the  great  and  the  small 

Are  leading  their  mates  to  the  altar, 
Unmindful  what  joys  or  what  woes  may  befall 

Those   who   place  'round   their   necks,  Hymen's 
halter. 

Some  misguided  ones  only  learn  when  too  late, 

They  never  were  formed  for  each  other, 
And  spend  all   their   lifetime  bemoaning  their  fater 

Since  they  learned  each  was  meant   for  another. 
Some  marry  in  haste  by  the  wish   of  their  friends, 

Some  marry  for  wealth  or  position; 
All  such  learn  the  fact  when  too   late   for   amends, 

Life,  for  them,  has  but  woe  and  contrition. 

'Tis  said  that  when  God  in  His  infinite  love, 

Created  the  spirits  of  mortals, 
He  mated  them  all  up  in  heaven  above, 

Then  sent  them  to  earth  from  its  portals. 
Then  how  happy  is  he  who  so  blest  is  by  fate 

To  meet  with  a  spirit  congenial, 
And  make  no  mistake  in  selecting  his  mate 

To  lead  to  the  altar  Hymenial. 

85 


HOP-PICKING  TIME. 


OP-PICKING  is  coming!"   the  boys  shout 

in  glee, 

"What  glorious  times  we  are  going  to  see! 
We'll  meet  all  the  girls  we  have  met   years  before, 
And  have  all  those  jolly  times  over  once  more!" 

"Hop-picking  is  coming!"  the  girls  smiling  say; 
"We've  been  looking  ahead  for  this  many  a  day, 
To  the  beaux  we  will  have,  and  the  dancing  and 

fun, — 
We'll    enjoy    them    so    well    when    hop-picking's 

begun." 

"Hop-picking  is  coming!"  the  poor  widow  sighs, 
As  she  looks  on  her  child  with  love-light  in  her 

eyes, 

And  thinks  of  the  comforts  her  earnings  will    buy 
For  herself  and  her  child  when   the  winter  winds 

sigh. 

"Hop-picking  is  coming!  We'll  earn  what  we 
can, 

My  wife  and  myself, "  says  the  stout  working- 
man; — 

*'  'Tis  our  harvest  time  now,  but  the  winter  will 
come 

When  we'll  need  all  our  earnings  to  gladden  our 
home." 


HOP-PICKING  TIME. 

"Hop-picking  is  coming!     Next  week  I'll  begin," 
The  hop-grower  says  as  he  strokes  his  rough  chin, 
And  his  heart  is  as  blithe  as  the  bird  on  the  wing 
As  he  thinks  of  the  money  his  hop  crop  will  bring. 

"Hop-picking  is  over!  The  girls  are  all  gone, 
And  everything  here  seems  so  quiet  and  lone; 
I  don't  know  that  ever  I've  seen  so  much  joy, 
But  it's  all  vanished  now,"  says   the  love-smitten 
boy. 

''Hop-picking  is  over!    Good-bye,  girls   and  boys, 
We've  made  the  folks  crazy  almost,  with  our  noise, 
For  hop-picking  seemed  like  a  gay,  giddy  whirl, 
But  we'll  quiet  down  now, "  says   the   light-hearted 
girl. 

"Hop-picking  is  over!"  the  poor  widow  sighs 
As  sadly  she  brushes  a  tear  from  her  eyes; — 
"The  sum  I  have  earned,  though  I  wish  it  were 

more, 
Will  keep,  through  the  winter,    the  wolf  from  my 

door. 

"Hop-picking  is  over!  We've  earned  quite  a  sum 
And  are  ready  for  winter  whene'er  it  shall  come;  — 
We  can  buy  food  and  clothing  to  last  a  long 

while," 
The  workingman  says,  and  his  face  wears  a  smile. 

"Hop-picking  is  over!     Thank  God,  it  is  done! 
I've  wished  myself  dead  ever  since  it  begun. 

87 


HOP-PICKING  TIME. 

They  have  tumbled  my   house   from  the  cellar  to 

dome 
Till  it  looks  more  like  bedlam  than  it   does  like  a 

home." 

Thus    the    hop   grower   groans  when    the    pfckers 

depart, 
While  the  frown  on  his  face  reaches  down  to   his 

heart, 
And  he   thanks    all    his    stars,  yes,    each  separate 

sphere. 
That  hop  picking  comes  only  once  in  a  year. 


THE  COUNTRY  EDITOR. 


WITHIN  his  dingy  sanctum  sat 
The  editor-in-chief; 
His  coat  was  seedy,  and  his  hat 
Had  long  since  come  to  grief. 
He  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand, — 

A  frown  crept  o'er  his  face; — 
His  features,  sometime  fair  and  bland, 
Now  showed  grim  sorrow's  trace. 

Upon  his  sanctum  table  lay, 

Spread  out  before  his  view, 
A  list  of  those  who'd  failed  to  pay 

Subscriptions  overdue. 
The  frown  grew  dark  and  darker  still, 

As  o'er  the  list  he  pored, 
And  wondered  how  he'd  pay  the  bill 

He  owed  for  last  month's  board. 

He  closed  his  eyes; — a  vision  bright, 

Unto  him  did  appear: 
An  angel,  clothed  in  robes  of  light, 

With  stately  step  drew  near 
And  spoke  to  him:  "O,  mourning  one, 

Expect  a  brighter  day; 
Thy  sorrows  may  be  almost  done, 

Subscribers  soon  will  pay.'' 

89 


THE  COUNTRY  EDITOK. 

He  woke.     A  sound  outside  he  heard, 

Of  footsteps  drawing  near;  — 
Kmotions  grand  his  whole  soul  stirred, 

And  filled  his  heart  with  cheer. 
Through  his  whole  being  quickly  passed 

A  proud,  ecstatic  thrill, — 
'Twas  some  subscriber  come  at  last 

To  pay  that  little  bill. 

The  door  swung  open, — in  there  came 

A  most  unwelcome  guest:  — 
A  man  whose  gaunt,  ungainly  frame 

In  shabby  robes  was  dressed. 
A  poem,  "Welcome,  Balmy  Spring," 

He  held  within  his  hand 
And  offered  to  the  sanctum  king 

With  an  obeisance  grand. 

The  editor,  with  frantic  yell, 

A  shotgun  grasped  and  fired; 
The  hapless  poet  gasping  fell 

And  instantly  expired. 
Before  the  court  austere  and  dread, 

The  editor  was  tried: — 
The  verdict  of  the  jury  read 

'  'Justifiable  horn  icide!" 


THE  OLD-TIME  STAGECOACH, 


^EATED  in  the  tavern, 

V /    Anxiously  we  wait, — 

Landlord  comes  and  tells  us 

That  the  stage  is  late. 
"Don't  know  what's  the  matter; 

Hardly  ever  so." 
Rather  chilly  comfort 

When  we  want  to  go. 

But  at  length  a  rumble 

Sounds  upon  our  ear; — 
Landlord  comes  and  tells  us 

That  the  stage  is  here. 
Hastily  we  clamber 

In  and  find  a  seat; — 
Tired,   haggard-looking 

Faces  there  we  meet. 

Then  with  jar  and  rumble, 

Onward  'long  the  road, 
Rolls  the  cumbrous  stagecoach 

With  its  human  load. 
Close  the  windows  tightly! 

How  the  foul  dust  flies! 
Clogging  throats  and  nostrils, 

Smarting  in  our  eyes. 

91 


THE  OLD-TIME  STAGECOACH. 

Hear  the  driver  singing 

With  a  nasal  twang, — 
Hear  him  cheer  his  leaders 

With  a  sharp  "G'lang!"' 
See  him  shake  the  ribbons, — 

Hear  his  whip-lash  crack, — 
Horses  springing  quickly, 

Almost  break  our  back. 

Toiling  up  the  hillsides, 

Speeding  down  the  grades, 
Through  the  beaming  sunshine 

And  the  forest  shades, — 
Rumbling  over  bridges, 

Far  above  the  tide, — 
Gliding  like  a  phantom, 

'Long  the  calm  lakeside. 

Dashing  through  the  valleys, 

Past  the  fertile  farms, 
Where  the  beauteous  landscape 

Spreads  its  fairest  charms; — 
Curving  'round  the  mountains 

Whose  bleak  summits  high, 
Crowned  with  snowy  turbans, 

Seem  to  pierce  the  sky: — 

Splashing  through  tne  mudholes- 

Jolting  over  stones — 
In  and  out  of  ditches, 

Almost  break  one's  bones; — 

92 


THE  OLD -TIME  STAGECOACH. 

Passengers  conversing, 

Scarcely  can  be  heard, 
For  the  jolt  and  rattle 

Mangle  every  word. 

On  through  town  and  hamlet — 

Stopping  now  and  then, — 
Passengers  alighting — 

Others  clambering  in, 
Till  at  length  our  journey, 

Thank  our  stars,  is  o'er! 
And  we  leave  the  stagecoach 

Stiff  and  lame  and  sore. 


93 


THE  EVENTS  OF  A  NIGHT. 

A    PARODY. 


ONCE  upon  an  evening  rainy, 
I  was  sitting,  trying  vainly 
To  arouse  my  sleepy  fancy  with  a  book  of  ancient 

lore; 

While  I  sat  there  reading,  thinking, 
Soul  and  body  fast  were  sinking 
Into   that  most  sweet,    oblivious    state    I'd    often 

known  before, — 
That  most  sweet  and  most  delicious  state  I'd  often 

known  before, — 
Much  inclined  to  sleep  and — snore. 

While  I  sat  there  listening,  hearing 
The  fierce  storm  outside  careering 
And  the  windows  loudly  rattling  as  the  rain  did  on 

them  pour; 

Suddenly  beside  the  ceiling, 
The  old  clock  commenced  pealing, 
And  it  struck  and  chimed  the  hour  as   oft    it   had 

before, — 
Striking    long    and   loud    the    hour   as    oft    it    had 

before, — 
Struck  and  chimed  and — nothing  more. 

94 


THE  EVENTS  OF  A  NIGHT. 

Then  upon  my  feet  uprising, 
My  sleepy  mood  but  half  disguising, 
Said    I,    "Straightway   will    I    that    blest    land    of 

dreams  explore!" 

Then  with  swift  despatch  undressing, 
Soon  my  weary  head  was  pressing 
Pillows  that  by  other  heads   had   oft   been   pressed 

before, — 
Pillows    pressed    and   rumpled    oft   by  other    men 

before, — 
Who  shall  press  them — nevermore. 

While  upon  my  couch  reclining. 
And  my  form  to  sleep  resigning, 
Dreams  of  past  life,  joys  and  sorrows  felt  in   days 

of  yore, 

Came  across  my  sleeping  vision, 
And  foul  sins  of  past  commission 
Rose  before  me,  and  their  numbers  as   I   scanned 

them  o'er,  — 
Seemed  to  my  distracted  vision  as  I  scanned  them 

o'er, — 
Full  many  a  score. 

Suddenly  a  peal  of  thunder 
Seemed  to  rend  my  brain  asunder, 
And    all   terror-stricken,    quaking,    out    I    sprang 

upon  the  floor! 

There  I  stood  still,  trembling,  quaking, 
Shivering,  trembling,  quivering,   shaking, 

96 


THE  EVENTS  OF  A  NIGHT. 

With  my  arms  outstretched    and   palsied   and    my 

eyes  upon  the  door! 
With  my  eyes  in   terror   glaring,    fixed    upon    the 

chamber  door! 
Stood  and  gazed  and — nothing  more. 

Sense  and  reason  then  returning, 
All  my  foolish  terror  spurning, 
Quick  I  sprang  into   the  bed  and   drew  the  quilts 

and  blankets  o'er. 
Thus  I  lay,  the  time  beguiling, 
O'er  my  foolish  terror  smiling 
Till  slumber  in  her  soft  embrace  clasped  me  again 

once  more, 
And  bore  me  to  that  blissful  land  of  dreams  again 

once  more, 
To  sleep  and  dream  and  nothing  more. 

Scarce  had  slumber's  welcome  pinions, 
Borne  me  to  her  fair  dominions, 
When  a  shriek   of  rage   and   anguish   such   as   I'd 

never  heard  before, 

Woke  me  from  my  pleasant  dreaming, 
Sent  my  blood  in  horror  streaming 
Through    my    veins    like    streams    of   fire    or    the 

molten  iron  ore, — 
Through    my    veins    in    streams    of    fire    like    the 

molten  iron  ore, 
From  my  heart's  deep  inmost  core. 

97 


THE  EVENTS  OF  A  NIGHT. 

Up  I  sprang,  my  whole  soul  fired 
By  the  thought  of  aid  required 
By  some  poor  and  helpless  mortal  perishing  at  my 

very  door, 

Whom  it  was  my  bounden  duty, 
My  very  plain  and  bounden  duty 
To  assist  with  willing  hands  against    his    enemies 

most  sore; 
For  thus  I  thought   'twas  some  poor  mortal  beset 

by  enemies  most  sore; — 
This  I  thought  and  something  more. 

Then,  deep  into  the  darkness  peering, 
Doubting,  wondering,  hoping,  fearing, 
Thinking    thoughts    no    mortal  ever    thought    to 

think  before; 

When  just  below  my  window  shutter, 
Came  forth  a  low  and  dismal  mutter, 
That  scarce  could   I   refrain  from  smiling    at   the 

sympathy  I  did  outpour, — 

At  the  tender,   heartfelt  sympathy  I  for  a  fellow- 
mortal  did  outpour, 
Who  is  nameless  here  forevermore. 

Quick  I  sprang  toward  the  shutter 
With  many  a  low-breathed  curse   and  mutter, 
Feeling    hate    and    indignation,    threatening   ven- 
geance most  sore 
On  the  cats,  the  wicked  witches, 
That  with  shrill  and  horrid  screeches, 

98 


THE  EVENTS  OF  A  NIGHT. 

Made  the  night  most  hideous  with  their   shrill,  dis- 
cordant roar, — 

With  their  horrid  yells  and  screeches,    and    their 

shrill,   discordant  roar, — 
The  like  I'd  never  heard  before. 

Then,  far  out  the  window  reaching, 

Aiming  toward  where  I  heard   the  screeching, 

I  threw  my  boot  with  all  my   power,  (and    I   don't 

know  but  I  swore). 
I  heard  amid  the  raindrops  beating, 
The  sound  of  frightened  cats  retreating, 

And  all  became  as  calm  and  quiet  as   it   had  been 
before, — 

As  calmly  quiet,  and  as  lonely  as  it  had  been  before, 
Except  the  storm's  low  roar. 

Then,  back  upon  my  couch  reclining, 
To  sleep  again  myself  resigning, 
My  troubles  were  forgotten   and    I    soon   began   to 

snore. 

I  slept  soundly  till  the  morning, 
Till  the  breakfast  bell's  loud  warning 
Woke  me,  and  with  one  quick  leap,    I    sprang   out 

on  the  floor, — 
Out    upon    the    cold    and    frosty,    slippery    oaken 

floor, — 
Feeling  stiff  and  sore, 


99 


THE  OLD  GRAY  HORSE. 


WHY    don't    I    sell    the    old   gray  horse,  won 
that  he's  old  and  lame, 
With  almost  nothin'  but  his  skin   to   cover  up  his 

frame? 
Of    course   he   isn't    fit   for   work, — I    know    he's 

almost  blind, 

An'  stiff  in  both  his  for'ard  legs  an'  spavined  bad 
behind. 

He's  over  thirty  years   old   now, — can   hardly  eat 

his  hay, 
An'  most  of  folks  would  likely  say  he's  only  in  the 

way; 
But,   Mister,    money    couldn't    buy    that   old   gray 

horse  from  me; 
I  mean  it,  ev'ry  word  I  say;   that's  just  the   man  / 

be. 

What  makes  me  prize  the  horse  so  high?  Just  lis- 
ten while  I  tell 

What  that  old  horse  has  done  for  me  and  why  I 
won't  him  sell, 

An'  when  I'm  through,  I  hardly  think  that  you 
will  disagree, 

But  say  you'd  never  part  with  him  supposin'  you 
was  me. 

100 


THE  OLD  GRAY  HORSE. 

It's  nigh  on  thirty  years  ago  that  Sue  an'  I  moved 
here; 

This  country  was  all  forest  then,  wilhout  a  neigh- 
bor near, 

Exceptin'  bears  an'  wolves  an'  such,  the  settlersr 
souls  to  fright; — 

We  used  to  hear  'em  howlin'  'round  'most  ev'ry 
winter  night. 

But  Sue  an'  I  were  young  them  days,  been  married 
but  a  year, 

An'  had  our  fortune  all  to  make  an'  hadn't  time  for 
fear. 

We  built  a  little  house  of  logs,  an'  then  com- 
menced our  toil 

A  clearin'  up  the  farm  we'd  bought  so  we  could  till 
the  soil. 

We  had  to  drive  'bout   twenty  [miles|  to   reach   the 

nearest  store, 
Where  we  could  buy  our  groceries  to  last  a  month 

or  more; 
'Twould  take  about  a  day  to  go,  by   startin'  soon's 

'twas  light, 
An'    buy    such  things   as   we  might  need    an'  get 

back  the  same  night. 

One  winter  mornin'  when  the  light  just  showed  the 

comin'  day, 
We  hitched  the  gray  colt  up   before   the  one-horse 

lumber  sleigh 

101 


THE  OLD  GRAY  HORSE. 

An'  started  for  the  distant  store   to  buy  our  stock 

of  goods; 
A  long  and  lonely   ride  it  was,  'most  all  the  way 

through  woods. 

We  done  our  tradin'  at  the  store,  an'  then   my  wife 

there,  Sue, 
Had  half  a  dozen  calls  to  make  upon   some   friends 

she  knew, 
So  that  'twas    almost    sundown,  when    we    started 

on  the  road, 
With  all  our  goods  tucked  in  the  sleigh,  a   pooty 

decent  load. 

While  we  were  in  the  store  that   day,    a  purchasin' 

our  goods, 
I  heard  a  man  there  sayin'  that   'twas  dangerous 

in  the  woods. 
He  said  the  wolves  were  gettin'  starved  an'  growin' 

awful  bold, 
An'  then  some  frightful  stories  'bout  their  ravagin' 

he  told. 

Of  course  I  didn't  say  a  word  of  what  I  thought,  to 

Sue, 
But  counted  every  mile  we  made  as  o'er  the   snow 

we  flew, 
Till   half   the  distance  we   had   come,  an'   then    I 

heard  a  sound 
That  seemed  to  freeze  my  very  soul,  an'   made   the 

gray  colt  bound. 

102 


THE  OLD  GRAY  HORSE. 

That  sound  I'd  often  heard  before,— the  half- 
starved  wolf's  wild  yell, 

But  now  it  seemed  to  sound  to  me  just  like  a 
funeral  knell! 

An'  Sue  she  gave  one  little  scream, — an'  then  clung 
close  to  me, — 

I  knew  her  face  was  pale  as  death  although  I 
couldn't  see. 

I  felt  my  heart  sink  in   my  breast.      I  knew  what 

that  yell  meant. 
It  was  the  wild  wolf's  rallying   unto  his   comrades 

sent, 
An'  quicker   than  I'm  tellin'   you    'twas    answered 

back  again, 
An'  then  I   prayed  to   God   for  help  an'   gave   the 

gray  the  rein. 

I    thought   the    gray    was    travelin'  some  before   I 

heard  that  cry, 
But    after    that    he    stretched    himself    an'   almost 

seemed  to  fly! 
The  snowballs  flew  from  off  his  hoofs,  like  bullets 

past  my  head, — 
The  forest  trees  seemed  whirlin'  by  as  on  our  way 

we  sped. 

I  felt  my  heart  grow  lighter  when  the  gray  rushed 

on  so  fast; 
An'  whispered  to  my  tremblin'  wife  I  thought  the 

danger  past; 

103 


THE  OLD  GRAY  HORSE. 

But  hardly  had  we  both  begun   to   draw  an  easier 

breath, 
Before  I  heard,  quite  near  to   us,  that    fearful  yell 

of  death! 

Into  the  woods  to  right  and  left,  I  quickly  cast  my 

eye, 
An'    there,    in    two  dark   lines,   I  saw  the  wolves 

a  drawin'  nigh! 
The  gray  colt  saw  them  too,   an'  with   a  shriek  of 

human  sound, 
He  sprung  ahead,   his  flyin'  feet  seemed  scarce  to 

touch  the  ground. 

But    yet    the    lean,    bloodthirsty    wolves    seemed 

faster  still  to  gain; 
We  heard  their  feet  a  patterin'  on    the    crust   like 

fallin'  rain. 
I  quickly  cast  one  glance  behind,  an'  there,  as  plain 

as  day, 
I  saw  two  wolves  with  open  jaws,  not  twenty  feet 

away. 

I  grabbed  my  rifle  that  lay  in  the  bottom  of  the 

sled, 
An'  with  a  quick  but  steady  aim,    I   shot   the    first 

one  dead! 
The  others  stopped  a   moment    for   to    taste    their 

brother's  flesh, 
An'  then  with  fiercer  yells  an'  howls,  they  all  came 

on  afresh. 

104 


THE  OLD  GRAY  HORSE. 

Once  more  I  sent  a  bullet  in  amongst  the    howlin' 

pack, 
But  whether  one  was  hit  or  not,  they  didn't  all  stay 

back; 
But  on  they  came  a   rushin'  like  the  very  hounds 

of  hell, 
Makin'  the  old  woods  echo  with   each  fearful  howl 

an'  yell! 

But  we  were  nearin'  home.      At  length  our  clearin' 

hove  in  sight. 
An'  from  the  windows  of   our  home  the  light  was 

shinin'  bright; 

I  seen  our  faithful  hired  man  a  standin'  in  the  door 
An'  then   I   yelled  with   all  my  might  as   ne'er  I'd 

yelled  before: 

"Throw  open  both  the  barn-doors,  John,  an'  let  us 

quickly  in! 
We're  ridin'  for  our  lives  now,  John;  God  grant 

that  we  may  win! 

The  faithful  fellow  lost  no  time  the  order  to  obey, 
While  close  behind,  the  foremost  wolves  had  almost 

reached  the  sleigh. 

On  dashed  the  gray  colt  for  the  barn  faster  than 

fleet  winds  blow, 
While    from    his     nostrils    foam-flecks    sped    like 

monstrous  flakes  of  snow. 

105 


THE  OLD  GRAY  HORSE. 

The    barn     was     reached,    the    gray   colt's    hoofs 

thundered  upon  the  floor, 
An'   John's    strong   hands   with   one     quick    jerk, 

quickly  swung  to  the  door. 

But    none    too    soon,    for   one    gray  wolf  came  in 

beside  the  sled. 
A  blow  John  gave  him  with  the  axe,  soon  laid  him 

stark  and  dead, 
An'  then  with  swellin'  hearts  we  thanked   the  God 

who  rules  on  high, 
For  bringin'  us  all  safely   home  when    death    had 

been  so  nigh. 

When  I  recall  that  fearful  night,  I  almost  lose   my 

breath 
To  think  how  near  both  Sue  and  me  were  to    a 

fearful  death; 
An'  but  for  God  who  rules  above  an'  gave  the  gray 

colt  speed, 
The  old  woods  would  have  seen  that  night  a  dark 

and  bloody  deed. 

I  made  a  vow  that  very   night   to  keep  the   noble 

gray 
An'  care  for  him,  the  best  I  could,  until  his  dyin' 

day; 
So  do  you  wonder  any  more,  why  money  can't  him 

buy? 
I  think,  if  you  were  in  my  place,  you'd  do  the  same 

as  I. 

106 


TOO  LATE. 


A  MOTHER  lay  in  her  coffin,— her  tired  soul 
had  fled," 

And  children  stood  around  her  weeping  above  the 
dead. 

Flowers  lay  on  the  casket  arranged  with  loving 
care, 

For  loving  hands  and  hearts  had  placed  the  sweet- 
est flowers  there. 

I  thought  as  I  gazed  upon  the  scene,  did  loving 
hands  e'er  place 

Flowers  within  her  living  hands,  with  gentle,  lov- 
ing grace? 

Were  kisses  pressed  on  mother's  cheeks  when  she 
could  feel  a  kiss? 

Did  loving  hands  and  tender  care  give  her  a  taste 
of  bliss? 

Did  kind  acts  always  help  to  smooth  the  wrinkles 
on  her  brow? 

If  not,  too  late  these  tokens  come, — she  cannot 
feel  them  now. 

A  father  in  his  coffin  lay, — his  heart  was  stilled  in 

death, 
And  children  gathered   'round   his    form    with   low 

and  sobbing  breath. 

107 


TOO  LA1E. 

They    stooped    and    kissed    the    pallid    brow    and 

smoothed  the  silvered  hair, 
And    spoke    in    tender,   loving  words   of  him  who 

rested  there. 
And    then    the    thought  came   to    me: — did    father 

always  hear, 
In  life,  his  children's  loving  words   fall   gently  on 

his  ear? 
Did  sons'  and  daughters'  younger  hands   help   him 

life's  toil  to  bear, 

Or  dutiful  obedience  help  lighten  his  life's  care? 
If  not,  too  late  those  tear-drops  fall,  too   late  each 

loving  word. 
They  should  have   come   when   father  lived;   then 

father  could  have  heard. 

A  wife  lay  shrouded  for  the  grave, — death's  silent 

sleep  she  slept. 
A  broken-hearted  husband  knelt  beside  her  there 

and  wept, 
And  kisses   pressed  on  marble  brow   and    cheeks 

and  lips  so  cold, 
And  tender  words   from    trembling    lips    his    sore 

bereavement  told. 
And  then  the  thought  came  to  me:  did   he  always 

through  her  life,    ' 
Give  kindly  acts  and  tender  words  to  her  who  was 

his  wife? 
Did  kisses  and  caresses  make  her  daily   life  more 

bright? 

108 


TOO  LATE. 

Did  words  of  commendation  make  her  wifely  toil 

more  light? 
If  not,    remorseful  tears    fail    now    past    faults   to 

mitigate. 
Those   kisses  cannot    help    her    now;    they   come, 

alas,  too  late. 


109 


THOSE  CITY  COUSINS. 


HOW     proudly    we    boast    of    our     city-bred 
cousins, 

And  tell  of  the  fineries  we've  seen  in  their  homes; 
But   we    wish    they    were  fewer    by  two  or  three 

dozens; 
When    spring    has    departed    and    summer-time 

comes. 
When  the   hot,    sultry   days    and    the    dust-laden 

breezes 

Seem  scorching  our  bodies  from  ankle  to  crown, 
A  shock  of  displeasure  our  whole  being  seizes, 
When  we  hear  from  our  cousins  who  live  in  the 

town. 

Those  city-bred  cousins,   those  dandified   cousins, 
Those  troublesome  cousins  who  live  in  the  town. 

Those  city-bred  cousins!    Oh,  aren't  they  a  bother, 
To  come  here  to  stay  through  the  long,  summer 

days, 
Making  trouble   and    work    for    poor    mother  and 

father, 

And  snubbing  us  all  with  their  citified  ways! 
No  doubt  it  is  hot  in  the  closely-built  city, 
And  fears  of  disease  fill  the  mind  with  alarm, 

110 


THOSE  CITY  COUSINS. 

But  still  I  do  think  that  they  might  have  some  pity 
On  their  poor  country  cousins  who  live  on  the 

farm. 
But     those    city-bred    cousins,      those      dandified 

cousins, 

Think  we  all  want  to  see  them  out  here  on  the 
farm. 

What  trouble  our  city-bred  cousins  do  make  us, 

No  mortals  but  country  folks  ever  will  know! 
And  the  joy  that  we  feel  when  they   finally  forsake 
us, 

Our  bright,    smiling  faces  most  truthfully  show. 
There's    nothing    I    know    in    this    wide  world    of 
sorrow, 

Can  give  such  a  sharp,  stinging  pang  of  alarm, 
As  a  letter  informing  us  that  on  the  morrow 

Our  cousins  will  visit  us  here  on  the  farm! 
Those  city-bred  cousins,  those  unwelcome  cousins, 

We  wish  they'd  forever  stay  away  from  the  farm! 


Ill 


THE  PHARISEE'S  PRAYER. 


A  PHARISEE,  in  purple  dressed, 
Within  the  temple  stood, 
And  gazed  around  on  every  side, 

With  self-complacent  mood, 
He  stood  beside  the  altar  there, 

In  costly  robes  arrayed, 
And  lifting  up  his  haughty  voice, 
In  trumpet  tones,  he  prayed: 

"O  Lord,  I  thank  Thee  I  am  not 

Like  other  men  I  know: — 
Nor  wicked  like  yon  Publican, 

Whose  life  must  end  in  woe. 
I  thank  Thee  that  I  do  not  sin 

In  word,  nor  thought,  nor  deed. 
And  that,  among  the  growing  corn, 

I  am  not  found  a  weed. 

"I  fast,  O  Lord,  as  often  as 

The  law  directs  me  to; 
I  give  to  every  needy  one, 

The  alms  that  are  his  due. 
I  clothe  the  poor  from  my  own  store, 

Supply  the  beggars'  needs, 
And  fill  each  day  completely  full 

Of  charity's  good  deeds. 

112 


THE  PHARISEE'S  PRAYER. 

"I  rob  no  one  of  what  belongs 

To  him  in  his  own  right; 
I  only  take  what  is  my  own, 

And  never  use  my  might. 
I  lend  my  money  to  the  poor, 

Always  at  lowest  rate; 
I  never  charge  but  ten  per  cent, 

And  never  deviate. 

Whene'er  I  own  a  mortgage  on 

My  poorer  neighbor's  land, 
I  never  close  and  sell  him  out 

Until  I've  made  demand; 
And  when  I  am  obliged  to  sell, 

1  never  do  oppress, 
But  only  take  what  is  my  own, 

No  more,  nor  yet  no  less. 

"I've  churches  built  with  my  own  means, 

That  look  both  grand  and  proud; 
Academies  and  colleges 

My  money  has  endowed. 
I  never  do  the  poor  oppress, 

Nor  charge  them  highest  price; 
I  always  give  them  money,  or 

Most  excellent  advice. 

"I  know  that  up  in  heaven,  Thou 

Hast  kept  a  place  for  me, 
Where,  by  and  by,  I'll  surely  dwell, 

In  honor,  near  to  Thee. 

113 


THE  PHARISEE'S  PRAYER. 

Then  people  like  yon  Publican, 

With  us  can  never  dwell, 
But  far  away  they'll  meet  their  doom 

In  burning,  scorching  hell." 


THE  PUBLICAN'S*PRAYER. 


7T\ITH    low-bowed    head,    near   by    there 
\\J          stood 

A  contrite  Publican, 
Who  humbly  prayed  "Have  mercy,  Lord, 

On  me,  a  sinful  man." 


114 


SHAKING  HANDS. 


THERE'S  a  language  expressed  by  the  grasp 
of  the  hand, 

Whereby  friend  gives  greeting  to  friend, 
That  speaks  from  the  heart  with  expressions  more 

true 
Than  lips  can  to  honeyed  words  lend. 

Away  with  the  hand  that  clasps  loosely  and  cold, 

And  sends  a  chill  over  my  form; 
But    give    me    the    hand    that    clasps    closely    and 
strong, 

With  a  pressure  as  firm  as  'tis  warm. 

We   love    the    firm    pressure    of    true    friendship's 

clasp, 

That  shows  a  soul  earnest  and  true; 
Though  no  sound  from  the  lips  breathes  of  friend- 
ship and  love 
The  hand  brings  the  heart  into  view. 

When  friend  parts  from  friend  for  a   long  lapse  of 

years, 

And  tears  dim  the  light  of  the  eye, 
When  the  clasp  of  the  hand  tells  what   words   can 

not  say, 
While  the  quivering  lips  speak  "Good-bye." 

115 


SHAKING  HANDS. 

When  the  boy  leaves  forever   his  childhood's   dear 
home, 

To  join  in  the  world's  busy  strife, 
His  heart  proudly  throbs  with  ambition's  desire, 

And  hope  brightly  gilds  all  his  life; — 

But  when  parting  time  comes,    and  the    trembling 

tongue 

Cannot  speak  what  it  fain  would  impart, 
Then  the  lingering  clasp  of   the  dear,   loved   one's 

hand 
Speaks  the  language  that  conies  from  the  heart. 

When,  after  long  absence,  we  meet  once  again 
The  friends  whom  we  loved  long  ago, 

The  greeting  we  give  them  is  warmer  by  far 
Than  choicest  of  language  can  show. 

Then    words    fail    to    tell    what    the    soul    would 

express; — 

The  lips  can  no  language  command; 
But    the    heart    speaks    the   words    that   are    best 

understood, 
In  the  warm,  thrilling  clasp  of  the  hand. 

When  dire  misfortune  bears  heavily  down, 
And  we  feel  almost  crushed  by  its  weight, 

The  warm  hand  of  sympathy  grasping  our  own, 
Speaks  more  than  the  lips  can  relate. 

116 


When  the  boy  leaves  forever 

his  childhood's  .dear  home. 


SHAKING  HANDS. 

When  the  eye  becomes  dimmed  and  the   stiffening 

lips 

Breathe  no  word  that  the  ears  understand, 
Then  the  last  sign  of  love  comes   to  us  from  the 

soul, 
Through  the  last  feeble  clasp  of  the  hand. 

When  the  pale  hue  of  death  gathers  over  the  form, 

Of  a  loving  and  dearly-loved  friend: 
And  the  last,  feeble  gasp   for  the  expiring    breath 

Plainly  tells  us  that  this  is  the  end, — 

Then  how  weak  and  unmeaning  all   words    to    our 
ears, 

Though  spoken  in  tones  soft  and  bland; 
But  we  yearn  for  the  sympathy  better  expressed 

In  the  warm,  tender  clasp  of  the  hand. 

When    my    last    moment    comes   and    my    nearly 
freed  soul 

Is  pluming  its  pinions  to  fly, 
May  I  feel  the  warm  clasp  of  a  hand  that  I  love, 

That  tells  me  a  true  friend  is  nigh. 


118 


THE  QUILTING  BEE. 


>  O  OUND  the    motley-colored  bed-quilt, 

J[\    Stretched  upon  the  quilting-frame, 
Sits  a  group  of  busy  women, 

Single,  married,  maid  and  dame. 
How  the  nimble,  flying  fingers 

With  the  busy  tongues  keep  pace! 
Thoughts  and  muscles  both  competing 

In  a  manu-lingual  race. 

Now  they  descant  on  the  weather, 

Of  the  heat  or  of  the  rain, — 
Try  to  interest  each  other 

On  those  topics,  but  in  vain. 
Then  they  speak  of  dire  diseases 

Frighting  all  the  country  'round, 
Draping  happy  homes  with  mourning, 

Placing  loved  ones  'neath  the  ground. 

Now  the  fact  grows  clear  and  clearer 

To  a  fair,  unbiased  mind, 
That  the  topic  most  congenial 

They  thus  far  have  failed  to  find; 
But,  toward  it  they  are  tending, 

Working  with  a  cautious  care, 
Till  among  the  group,  one  woman 

Speaks,  and  hits  the  subject  square. 

119 


THE  QUILTING  BEE. 

"Have  you  heard  about  Miss  Judson? 

But  I  know  you  have,  of  course; 
Some  one  ought  to  tell  her  mother 

Ere  the  matter  grows  to  worse." 
"Now  do  tell!  We  haven't  heard  it, 

But  we  always  thought  her  bad; 
If  at  last  she's  caught  in  error, 

7  for  one  can  say  I'm  glad." 

"Have  you  heard  how  Mary  Lincoln 

Carries  on  with  Mr.  Brown? 
Why,  the  way  those  two  are  acting 

Is  the  talk  of  all  the  town! 
She's  a  good-for-nothing  hussy, 

And  if  people  served  her  right 
A  fine  coat  of  tar  and  feathers 

Would  adorn  her  some  dark  night!" 

"Have  you  heard  how  the  new  preacher 

Flirts  with  Deacon  Benson's  wife? 
I  declare!   Were  I  the  deacon, 

I  believe  I'd  take  his  life!" 
"But  the  deacon's  not  an  angel 

Though  he  is  so  loud  in  prayer; 
For  they  say  he's  'most  too  friendly 

With  that  hussy,  Fanny  Dare." 

"Did  you  notice  'tother  Sunday, 
How  they  acted  in  the  choir? 

Ellen  Sommers  knew  I  saw  her, 
And  her  face  turned  red  as  fire! 

120 


THE  QUILTING  BEE. 

Jimmy  Long,  who  sings  the  tenor. 

Sat  a  squeezing  of  her  hand ! 
Such  mean  actions  right  in  church  time 

Are  enough  to  sink  the  land!" 

"Have  you  noticed  Julia  Martin, 

How  she  flirts  with  Doctor  Gray? 
Everybody  thinks  it  shameful 

How  those  two  do  carry  sway!" 
"t  don't  know  what  next  will  happen; 

Folks  are  growing  worse  and  worse. 
Things  are  going  on  so  dreadful, 

It  will  surely  bring  a  curse!" 

Thus  each  absent  neighbor  suffers 

From  the  tongues  that  scandal  moves: 
More's  the  pity  tongues  of  women 

Should  glide  on  in  such  base  grooves. 
But  at  length  the  quilt  is  finished, 

And  the  scandal  too  is  done, 
Work  and  mischief  both   accomplished, 

Better  neither'd  been  begun. 


121 


THE  FATE  OF  SIR  THOMAS  TURKEY. 

A  THANKSGIVING  SKETCH. 


ON  a  fertile  farm  in  Vermont  state, 
Many  years  before  this  present  date, 
Dwelt  a  haughty  lord  of  as  goodly  band, 
As  ever  roamed  over  Yankeeland. 
With  stately  step  o'er  the  farmyard  sod, 
Like  an  autocrat,  he  daily  trod; 
As  if  leading  his  band  to  deadly  fight, 
His  armor  gleamed  in  the  bright  sunlight. 
His  clarion  voice  would  clearly  sound, 
Waking  the  startled  echoes  'round, 
As  he  shrieked  defiance  left  and  right 
And  dared  to  combat  each  hostile  knight. 

When  chilly  night  around  him  closed, 
On  no  downy  couch  his  limbs  reposed, 
But  he  perched  himself  from  mankind  aloof, 
On  the  ridge  of  some  antique  woodshed  roof; 
There  his  ghostlike  form  loomed  'gainst  the  sky, 
In  weather  calm  or  when  storms  raged  high. 

His  life  in  summer  was  wild  and  free, 
As  he  roamed  unrestrained  o'er  hillside  and  lea, 
Capturing  grasshoppers  that  chanced  in  his  way, 
And  displaying  his  plumes  in  the  glare  of  day; 

122 


THE  FATE  OF  SIR  THOMAS  TURKEY. 

But  when  autumn  came  and  the  crops  were   shorn, 
He  daily  fed  on  the  golden  corn, 
Till  his  stalwart  form  grew  plump  and  round, 
And  he  moved  less  gracefully  over  the  ground; 
And  he  strutted  less,  though  he  ate  the  more, 
Of  the  heaped-up  corn  on  the  old  barn  floor. 
He  little  dreamed  of  the  fate  in  store 
For  his  lordship,  ere  a  short  month  more. 

He  deemed  the  hand  that  dealt  him  food 

Would  ne'er  be  stained  with  his  heart's  best  blood; 

For  he  reasoned  like  many  humans  do, 

That  what  seems  good  must  of  course  be  true. 

But  humans  as  well  as  turkeys  find 

Ofttimes  there  is  something  hidden  behind 

An  oily  tongue  and  a  smiling  face, 

More  full  of  deceit  than  kindly  grace. 

Thus  time  passed  on,  and  his  lordship  grew 
More  plump  as  all  well-fed  turkeys  do. 
Till  the  morn  before  Thanksgiving  Day, 
He  heard  the  stalwart  farmer  say, 
"Old  Tom  is  fat  enough  to  slay; — 
We'll  eat  him  on  Thanksgiving  Day." 

That  night  while  Tom  unconscious  slept, 
The  farmer's  boys  in  silence  crept 
Up  to  his  roost,  and  ere  he  thought, 
They  had  him  by  the  leg  fast  caught! 
He  struggled  hard  and  shrieked  in  pain, 

123 


THE  FATE  OF  SIR  THOMAS  TURKEY. 

But  all  resistance  proved  in  vain; 
They  placed  his  neck  across  a  block, 
The  axe  descended  with  a  shock, 
His  quivering  body  rolled  aside, 
And  thus  poor  Tom  ingloriously  died. 

In  water  hot  his  form  was  dipped, 

And  then  deft  hands  his  feathers  stripped. 

Bereft  of  feathers,  head  and  feet, 

And  other  parts  unfit  to  eat, 

His  body  then  was  quickly  put 

Within  the  oven  scorching  hot. 

At  noon  on  that  Thanksgiving  Day, 
His  half-cremated  body  lay 
Displayed  to  view  in  royal  state 
Upon  a  mammoth,  earthen  plate. 
The  farmer  then,  with  knife  in  hand 
And  smile  upon  his  features  bland, 
Proceeded  to  dissect  his  breast, 
His  wings,  his  limbs  and  all  the  rest 

The  long,  pine  table  thickly  spread 
With  dainties  from  its  foot  to  head, 
Was  soon  filled  'round  with  hungry  ones, — 
The  farmer's  wife  and  girls  and  sons; 
Each  plate  was  filled  and  piled  up  high 
With  breast  and  stuffing,  wing  or  thigh. 

Then  all  was  hushed.     Each  head  bowed  low, 
While  father's  voice  in  accents  slow, 

124 


THE  FATE  OP  SIR  THOMAS  TURKEY 

Gave  thanks  to  God  for  every  good, 
And  blessing  craved  upon  their  food. 
The  brief  prayer  o'er,  each  knife  and  fork, 
By  nimble  hands  was  set  at  work, — 
Each  hungry  one  began  to  eat 
Of  roasted  turkey,  rich  and  sweet. 

Oh,  sad  was  Sir  Tom  Turkey's  fate! 
His  bones  lay  scattered  'round  each  plate! 
No  sepulcher  will  them  enclose, 
No  headstone  tell  to  friends  or  foes, 
No  monument,  pointing  toward  the  skies, 
Will  tell  where  Tom's  dead  body  lies, 
Nor  sound  his  praise  nor  tell  his  fame, 
Nor  keep  in  memory  dear,  his  name! 


125 


THE  AULD  WIFE  IS  GONE. 


AN  old  man  stood  in  the  darkened  room 
Where  his  dead  wife  coffined  lay; 
His  form  was  bent  with  four-score  years, 
And  his  cheeks  were  wet  with  trickling  tears, 
And  I  heard  his  voice  in  the  dusky  gloom, 
In  mournful  accents  say: — 

"You  have  beat  me,  Nell,  a  little;  you  have  crossed 
the  river  first, 

You  have  reached  the  golden  city  and  have  heard 
the  joyous  burst 

Of  the  charming  angel  music,  where  the  anthems 
ring  and  swell; 

You  have  seen  the  sights  of  heaven  which  no  mor- 
tal tongue  can  tell. 

"Oh,  how   oft   I've   prayed   to   Heaven   that  when 

death  at  last  should  come, 
It  might  take  us  both  together  to  our  everlasting 

home; 
We  have  lived  so  long  together  that  I   hoped  we 

both  might  die 
And  our  souls  go  on  together  in   their  journey  to 

the  sky, 

126 


THE  AULD  WIFE  IS  GONE. 

"But  you've  gone  on  first  and  left   me  when   we 

wanted  both  to  go. 
It  was  hardly  like  you,  Nelly,   to  go  on  and  leave 

me  so, 
But  I  s'pose  the  angels   called  you;  yet   I   hardly 

think  it  kind, 
When  we've  lived  so  long  together,   to  leave  me 

alone  behind. 

"Last  night  while  I  was  sleeping  all  alone,  for  you 

were  gone, 
Such  a  happy   dream    came   to   me   of   the  happy 

years  now  flown; — 
In  my  dream  I  saw  your  features  as  they  looked  in 

years  gone  by, 
When    the    auburn    tresses    clustered    where    the 

snowy  locks  now  lie. 

"We  were  sitting  both  together  in  the  noonday  of 

our  life,— 

I  was  a  happy  husband  and  you  a  happy  wife, 
And    our    children,    little    Willie   and    our    darling 

little  May, 
By  our  sides  were  romping  gayly,  happy  in  their 

childish  play. 

"I  forgot  that  both  are  sleeping  in  the  churchyard 

on  the  hill, 
Where    the    flowers    bloom    in   summer   and    the 

winter  winds  are  chill, 

127 


THE  AULD  WIFE  IS  GONE. 

I  forgot  the  grief  we  suffered  when  we  knew  they 

both  were  dead, — 
I  forgot  the  bitter  tear-drops  o'er  their  little  graves 

we  shed. 

"In  my  dreams  I  heard  you  singing,  and  your 
voice  was  sweet  and  low, 

While  you  sang  the  songs  that  pleased  me  in  the 
years  of  long  ago; — 

I  have  heard  the  sweet  notes  ringing  in  my  ears 
this  whole  day  long, 

And  the  words  come  plainly  to  me  of  that  well- 
remembered  song. 

"Oh,    I'd   like  to  dream   on    always  as   I    did    on 

yesternight, 
And  I'd  like  to  see  you  always  as   you   looked   so 

sweet  and  bright, 
And  I'd  like   to   see  our  children   as   I   saw    them 

plainly  then, — 
Oh,  I'd  like  to  live  on  always,  dreaming  that  dream 

o'er  again. 

"But  my  dream  too  quickly  ended,  and  I  wakened 

with  a  groan, 
To  find  myself  there  lying   in    my    widowed    bed 

alone; 
And,  oh  Nell,   it  seemed  so  lonely  when  I    knew 

you  were  not  there, 
That  a  weight  of  grief  came  on  me,  almost  more 

than  I  could  bear. 
123 


THE  AULD  WIFE  IS  GONE. 

"All   alone!    oh,    Nellie    darling!    oh,    that    dreary 

word — alonel 
Bitterest  word  that  mortal   tongue   or  mortal  ear 

has  ever  known. 
Never  did  I  know  its  meaning  as  it    came  to   me 

this  morn 
When  I  found  myself  forsaken  and  my   poor,    old 

heart  forlorn. 

"Why,  oh  Nellie,  did  you  leave  me  in  this  world 

so  drear  and  cold? 
Did  you  care  less  for  me,  Nellie,   now  that  I   have 

grown  so  old? 
But  my  heart  was  young,  still,  Nellie,  and  my  love 

was  just  as  true 
As  it  was  when  we  were  younger  and  I   told  it  first 

to  you. 

"But    I   s'pose  it's   wrong  to   murmur,    for  you're 

happier,  I  know, 
Than  ever  I  could  make  you  in  this  cold  world  here 

below; 
But  I  cannot  help  the  wishing  that  I  lay   there  by 

your  side,— 
That  when  death  came  for  you,  Nellie,  we  together 

might  have  died. 

"I  know  that  you  will  miss   me   in  that  world   so 

bright  and  fair, 
And  amid  the  joys  of  heaven,  you  will'  wish  /  might 

be  there; 

129 


THE  AULD  WIFE  IS  GONE. 

And  when  the  gate  shall  open  to  let  one  more  soul 

come  home, 
You  will  look  around  so  eagerly  to  see  if  /  have 

come. 

"You  will  kiss  our  children  for  me  when  you  meet 

them  in  the  sky, 
And  tell  them  father's  coming;  they  will  see  him 

by  and  by; 
And  you'll  ask  our  Father,  Nellie,  if  His  pleasure 

it  might  be, 
He  will   send   His  angel  quickly  with  a    message 

after  me. 

"And  you'll  meet  me,  won't  you,  Nellie,  just  inside 

the  pearly  gate? 
I  will  heed  the  summons  quickly  so  you  won't  have 

long  to  wait; 
And  you'll  greet  me,  Nellie  darling,  with  that  dear, 

sweet,  wifely  kiss 
When  you  bid  my  spirit  welcome  to  that  world  of 

endless  bliss. 

"Then    we'll   live   on  there  forever,  for   no  dying 

there  is  known; 
And  we'll  never  know  how  sad  it  is  for  one  to  be 

alone; 
And  our  children  will  be  with  us;  then  how  happy 

we  will  be 
Living    through    the    countless    ages    of   a   blest 

eternity. " 

130 


A  SCENE  IN  SCHOOL. 

TWAS  a  sunny  day  in  summer; 
Through  the  open  schoolhouse  door, 
Came  a  flood  of  golden  sunshine, 

Lighting  up  the  well-worn  floor. 
At  their  desks  the  silent  pupils 

Conned  their  lessons,  word  by  word, 
And  the  humming  of  the  insects 
Was  the  only  sound  there  heard. 

For  the  teacher,  stern  and  scowling, 

Had  the  dreadful  edict  spoke: 
That  the  first  one  caught  at  whispering, 

Should  receive  the  ferule's  stroke. 
In  his  chair,  the  pupils  facing, 

Sat  the  teacher  grim  and  stern, 
Watching  for  the  luckless  urchin, 

Who  would  first  the  edict  spurn. 

Suddenly  the  teacher  started! 

Fire  flashing  from  each  eye! 
Little  Gracie  Brown  was  whispering — 

Whispering  to  Johnnie  Nye. 
"Grace!"  the  irate  teacher  thundered; 

"Grace!  You  wicked  girl!  Come  here! 
I  will  give  you  one  good  whipping 

That  will  last  you  all  the  year! 

131 


A  SCENE  IN  SCHOOL. 

Little  Grade's  slight  form  trembled, 

And  a  tear  came  in  each  eye; — 
When  she  stood  before  her  teacher, 

By  her  side  stood  Johnnie  Nye. 
"Johnnie!"  spake  the  teacher  sternly, 

"Take  your  seat.      1  called  not  you. 
Take  your  seat  and  do  it  quickly, 

Or  you'll  get  a  whipping  too!" 

Then  spake  Johnnie,  little  hero, — 

Round  and  full  the  brave  words  came; 
"Teacher,  please  don't  punish  Grace, 

Whip  me,  I'm  the  most  to  blame. 
Gracie  wouldn't  never  whispered, 

But  /whispered  first  to  her, 
Let  me  take  the  whipping,  teacher, 

Please,  and  pardon  Gracie,  sir." 

From  his  face  the  frown  departed 

And  a  tear  came  in  each  eye, 
While  the  teacher  softly  murmured, 

"Noble  little  Johnnie  Nye! 
Take  your  seats  both  little  darlings," 

And  he  spake  no  other  word: 
But  the  punishment  intended 

Was  indefinitely  deferred 


132 


WATERMELONS. 


THE  shades  of  night  were  gathering  thick, 
As  strode  with  footsteps  firm  and  quick, 
A  youthful  Afric,  black  as  night, — 
One  thought  filled  his  heart  with  delight — 
Watermelons. 

Over  the  fence  with  nimble  feet, 
He  sprang,  the  luscious  fruit  to  greet; 
Then  feeling  carefully  around, 
The  object  of  his  search  he  found — 

Watermelons. 

His  eyeballs  rolled  in  wild  delight! 
He  searched  around  from  left  to  right, 
And  soon  he  held  beneath  each  arm, 
As  if  to  shield  them  safe  from  harm — 

Watermelons. 

In  haste  the  sooty  urchin  strode 
Toward  his  home,  along  the  road, 
Nor  stopped  to  rest  his  weary  feet 
Nor  yet  with  hungry  zeal  to  eat 

Watermelons. 

Behind  the  house  he  sat  alone; 

A  bright  smile  o'er  his  features  shone 

133 


WATERMELONS. 

As  he  proceeded  with  a  will, 

His  mouth  and  stomach  both  to  fill 

With  watermelons. 

Ere  long  this  nigger  boy,  alas! 
Lay  down  and  rolled  upon  the  grass, 
And  groans  of  anguish  from  him  burst, 
As  wildly  he  wept,  wailed  and  cursed 

Watermelons. 

His  family,  in  sore  affright, 

Sent  for  a  doctor  in  the  night 

The  doctor  came  and  shook  his  head, 

And  only  this  one  word  he  said — 

Watermelons. 

Before  dawn  came  of  the  next  day, 
The  poor  boy's  soul  had  passed  away, 
The  coroner  his  jury  brought, 

And  viewed  the  corpse;  then  spoke  his  thought- 
Watermelons. 

They  placed  him  'neath  the  cold,  damp  ground, 
And  soon,  from  out  that  little  mound, 
A  plantlet  grew  with  twist  and  twine, 
And  bore  upon  its  creeping  vine 

Watermelons. 


134 


MY  FIRST  SCHOOLMA'AM. 


E    was    tall    and    slim    and    bony,   and    the 

hair  upon  her  head 
Was    not  auburn,    black   nor  golden,  but  its   hue 

was  fiery  red, 
And  her  voice  was  shrill  falsetto,  and  when  raised 

in  angry  tone, 
Seemed   to   pierce   like  poisoned   dagger,    through 

the  flesh  e'en  to  the  bone, 

How  we  urchins  used  to  tremble  when  we  saw  the 

angry  frown 
Gather  o'er  her  freckled  forehead,   draw  her  sandy 

eyebrows  down; 
And  our  teeth  would  fairly  chatter  in  an  agony  of 

fear 
When  we  heard  that  voice  falsetto  say  in  rasping 

tones,  "Come  herel" 

Well  we  know  no  prayers  for  mercy  would  avail 
for  mischief  done, 

But  the  pain  and  tears  and  sorrow  would  repay  us 
for  our  fun; 

And  with  trembling  steps  unwilling,  out  we'd 
march  upon  the  floor, 

Feeling  in  anticipation,  blows  we'd  often  felt  be- 
fore. 

135 


MY  FIRST  SCHOOLMA'AM. 

Then  she'd  grasp  us  by  the  collar,  bend  us  quickly 

o'er  her  knee, 
And  our  faces  pointing  downward,  showed  acutest 

agony, 
While   the   swift-descending   ferule  was  succeeded 

as  it  fell 
On  our  closely  fitting  trowsers,    by  an  agonizing 

yell. 

She  would  punish  dereliction  with  an  unrelenting 
hand, 

And  insisted  on  obedience  to  every  command; 

But  I'll  never  cease  to  thank  her  that  she  taught, 
and  taught  me  well, 

How  to  read  and  write  and  cipher,  parse  and  con- 
jugate and  spell. 


135 


BE  KIND  TO  MOTHER. 


BE  kind  to  mother  when  her  form 
With  age  is  bent  and  weak; 
Let  kindly  acts  her  old  heart  warm, 

And  gently  to  her  speak. 
Her  dear,  old  heart  will  deeply  feel 

Each  unkind  word  you  say, 
And  tears  will  down  her  pale  cheek  steal, 
You  cannot  wipe  away. 

Be  kind  to  mother;  years  ago, 

Beside  your  cradle  bed 
Her  voice,  in  accents  sweet  and  low, 

Your  cradle  ditty  said 
She  trained  your  little  feet  to  walk, 

And  with  a  mother's  care, 
She  taught  your  childish  voice  to  talk, 

And  speak  your  infant  prayer. 

Her  cheeks,  now  grooved  with  wrinkles  deep, 

Once  beamed  with  beauty's  glow; 
Care's  lines,  which  on  her  pale  brow  sleep, 

Were  not  there  once  I  know. 
Those  dear,  gray  hairs  so  thin  and  white, 

Were  auburn  once,  or  gold; — 
Those  dim,  old  eyes  once  glistened  bright 

With  mother-love  untold. 

137 


BE  KIND  TO  MOTHER, 

Those  wrinkled  hands  have  toiled  for  you 

Through  many  a  weary  day; — 
Those  dim  old  eyes  have  wept  for  you, 

When  you  have  gone  astray. 
Then  strive  to  make  her  last  days  bright; 

The  best  that  you  can  do 
Will  never  more  than  just  requite 

\\  hat  she  has  done  for  you. 


133 


THE  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER'S  VISION. 


IN  bed  the  old  pedagogue's  form  lay  reclining, 
And  closed  were  his  eyelids  in  slumber  serene; 
The  moonlight  that  over  his  gray  locks  was  shin- 
ing, 

Spread  over  each  ringlet  a  silvery  sheen. 
A  vision  came  to  him;— his  bed  seemed  surrounded 
With  pupils  he'd  taught  in  the  years  long  gone 

by,- 

Like    sweetest    of    music    each    well-known   voice 

sounded, 
And  bright  was  the  gleam  of  each  dear,  sparkling 

eye- 
Each  hand   grasped   his  own   in   a  warm   clasp   of 

greeting,— 
Each  eye    beamed    with    love    and    affection    so 

dear, — 

Each  heart  with  the  noblest  of  impulses  was  beat- 
ing,— 
Each  voice  whispered  words  that  his  old  heart 

did  cheer. 
They  were  children  no  longer.      Each  well-defined 

feature 

Showed  manhood's  proud  stamp  and  the  soul  of 
a  man, 

139 


/'//A'  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER'S  VISION. 

As  they  stood  by    the    bedside    around    their    old 

teacher, 
Each  seemed  a  fit  leader  to  stand  in  the  van. 


Grave  senators,  judges,  physicians  and  teachers, 

Whose  names  are  enrolled  in  the  temple  of  fame, 

With  lawyers  and  authors  and  eminent  preachers, 

Each    crowned   with   esteem    and    an    honorable 

name. 
Each  spoke  of  the  past  and  related  his  story. 

How  he  climbed  up  the  steep,   rugged  mountain 

of  fame; 

And  each  gave  the  teacher  a  full  meed  of  glory, 
And    blessings    called    down    on    his    venerable 
name. 


The  pedagogue's  heart  beat  with  rapture  and  glad- 
ness, 

His  soul  felt  a  thrill  of  sweet,  ecstatic  joy; 
And  tears  wet  his  eyelids,  but  not  tears  of  sadness, 
But  tears    such    as    hearts    filled    with    pleasure 

employ. 
He  felt   that  when    life   with    its    toils    should    be 

ending, 
When    bidding    adieu    to    earth's    pleasure   and 

pain, 

Results  he  would  see  on  his  labors  attending, 
•  To  prove  to  the  world  he  had  not  lived  in  vain. 

140 


THE  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER'S  VISION. 

The    vision    now  changed.       The   old   teacher  lay 

dying, 
And  forms  bowed  in  mourning,   surrounded  his 

bed; 
Then  angels'  bright  forms  down. from  heaven  came 

flying, 

And  a  halo  of  glory  about  him  they  shed. 
His   eyelids    were   closed,    but  a  sweet  smile  was 

wreathing 
The   pale,    wrinkled    lips    that    would    open    no 

more, 
And  the  mourning  ones  know  from  his  low,  feeble 

breathing, 

He  was  stepping  close  down  to  the  dark  river's 
shore. 

Once    more    the    scene    changed;    and    on    bright, 

golden  pinions, 
The    angel     forms     hastened     towards    heaven 

above, 

Bearing  on  to  their  home  in  those  blissful  domin- 
ions, 

The  pedagogue's  spirit  to  mansions  of  love. 
With  songs  and  with  anthems  of  heavenly  meter 
They  drew  near  the  place  where  could  enter  no 

sin; 
When  loudly   they  shouted,    "Saint    Peter!    Saint 

Peter! 
Come  quickly  and  let  our  old  schoolmaster  in!" 


141 


THE  SEASIDE  YOUNG  WIDOW. 


I    MET  her;  'twas  out  on  the  strand, 
I  chanced  to  be  passing  along; 
The  waves  dashing  o'er  the  white  sand, 
Were  chanting  a  low,  mournful  song. 
She  sat  on  a  bench  all  alone, 

And  heard  not  my  steps  drawing  near,- 
The  sunlight  that  over  her  shone, 
Disclosed  on  her  pale  cheek,  a  tear. 

My  whole  heart  in  sympathy  stirred 
•  At  sight  of  her  pitiful  woe; 
I  longed  but  to  offer  some  word, 

My  kindly  emotions  to  show. 
I  longed  to  sit  down  by  her  side 

And  speak  words  of  comfort  and  cheer; 
But  fears  that  I  might  be  denied 

Kept  me  from  approaching  more  near. 

I  silently  gazed  on  the  grief 

Displayed  in  the  garments  she  wore, 
And  thought  of  the  wondrous  relief 

That  colors,  for  grief,  have  in  store. 
Her  dress  was  the  hue  of  the  night, — 

Her  veil  and  her  bonnet  likewise, 
No  glimmer  of  anything  bright. 

Her  raiment  disclosed  to  my  eyes. 

142 


THE  SEASIDE  YOUNG  WIDOW. 

I  watched  her  for  a  minute  or  two, 

(The  tear-drops  bedimming  my  eyes), 
When,  conscious  perhaps  of  my  view, 

She  turned  with  a  glance  of  surprise. 
The  tear-drop  was  glistening  still, 

A  diamond  of  brilliancy  rare; 
It  sent  through  my  heart  a  quick  thrill, 

And  I  blushed  to  the  roots  of  my  hair. 

I  stammered  some  words  of  excuse, 

That  I  never  had  meant  to  intrude 
My  presence  on  grief  so  profuse, — 

Hoped  she  wouldn't  consider  it  rude. 
A  sad  smile  played  over  her  face, 

Her  hand  brushed  the  tear-drop  aside, 
And  kindly  she  offered  a  place 

For  me  on  the  bench  by  her  side. 

With  thanks  I  accepted  the  seat,— 

Inquired  why  thus  she  did  grieve, 
And  heard  her  the  sad  tale  repeat 

Of  sorrow  I  fain  would  relieve. 
Perhaps  it  was  wrong  thus  to  haste, 

(But  there's  much  that  we  do  that's  amiss), 
My  arm  stole  around  her  small  waist, 

And  my  lips  met  her  own  in  a  kiss. 

We  talked  for  an  hour  or  more, 

Of  the  joys  and  the  woes  of  this  life, 

That  Fate  might  be  having  in  store 
For  many  a  husband  and  wife. 

143 


THE  SEASIDE  YOUNG  WIDOW. 

At  length  we  pronounced  the  good-byes, — 
One  instant  her  hand  clasped  my  own; 

I  saw  two  bright  tears  in  her  eyes, 
As  I  turned  and  left  her  there  alone. 

Moons  passed  till  a  twelvemonth  was  neared; 

(I'd  forgotten  the  scene  on  the  strand), 
When  before  me  there  sternly  appeared 

A  sheriff  with  warrant  in  hand. 
In  vain  I  protested  that  I 

Was  guiltless  of  crime  or  of  wrong; 
The  sheriff  disdained  to  reply, 

But  forcibly  took  me  along. 

The  crime  of  which  I  was  accused, 

Was  a  breach  of  a  promise  to  wed. 
I  reflected,  but  mem'ry  refused 

To  recall  any  word  I  had  said, — 
Any  promise  to  marry  the  one, 

For  whom  I  a  prisoner  was  placed; 
But  she  swore  to  the  act  I  had  done 

When  I  sat  with  my  arm  'round  her  waist. 

Of  course  I  was  beaten,  because 

The  widow  was  wondrously  fair: 
And  to  keep  from  the  clutch  of  the  laws, 

Cost  more  than  I  wanted  to  spare. 
But  I  think  I've  gained  wisdom  with  years, 

And  while  I  remain  upon  earth, 
All  widows  I  see  shedding  tears 

Will  be  given  by  me  a  wide  berth. 

144 


MY  NEIGHBOR'S  WIFE. 

HE'S  a  darling  little  creature, 

With  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair, 
And  her  voice  is  like  the  music 

Of  a  well-remembered  air. 
When  she  came  to  be  my  neighbor, 
Quite  a  change  came  o'er  my  life, 
For  I  was  not  long  in  learning 
That  I  loved  my  neighbor's  wife! 

'Twas  not  many  weeks  thereafter, 

Ere  the  matter  came  to  light, 
For  the  neighbors  learned  my  weakness, 

And  declared  it  was  not  right. 
One  by  one  they  came  and  told  me 

It  would  surely  come  to  strife, 
If  I  didn't  stop  this  wicked 

Loving  of  my  neighbor's  wife! 

Conscience  told  me  it  was  sinful 

Thus  to  place  my  love  on  her; 
But  my  heart  was  sadly  smitten, 

And  'gainst  cdnscience  did  demur. 
So  betwixt  my  heart  and  conscience, 

There  arose  a  daily  strife, — 
Conscience  pleading  for  my  neighbor, 

While  my  heart  beat  for  his  wife. 

145 


MY  NEIGHBOR'S  WIFE. 

If  I  had  a  wife  to  cherish, 

And  to  care  for  of  my  own, 
Doubtless  I  would  then  consent  to 

Leave  my  neighbor's  wife  alone; 
But  my  heart  is  sad  and  dreary, 

And  so  lonely  is  my  life, 
That  I  find  I  must  love  some  one, 

So  I  love  my  neighbor's  wife. 

I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty — 

Tried  the  very  best  I  could 
To  obey  the  ten  commandments, 

As  by  me  they're  understood; 
And  I  find  among  those  maxims 

That  should  rule  and  guide  my  life, 
That  I  ought  to  love  my  neighbor, 

Then  why  not  my  neighbor's  wife. 


146 


WHY  IS  IT? 


WHY  is  it  that  this  world  of  ours 
Is  full  of  care  and  woe? 
Why  is  it  that  weeds  instead  of  flowers, 

Spontaneously  grow? 
Why  is  it  some  are  born  to  wealth, 

To  honors  and  to  ease, 
While  others  groan  and  sigh  for  health, 
Oppressed  with  fell  disease? 

Why  is  it  stolen  kisses  are 

So  very,  very  sweet? 
Why  fruits  forbidden  seem  most  fair, 

And  pleasantest  to  eat? 
Why  do  those  things  beyond  our  reach 

Seem  fairest  to  the  eye? 
Why  does  the  sloping,  ocean  beach 

Seem  fairer  far  than  nigh? 

Why  are  the  dreams  and  hopes  of  youth 

More  beauteous  than  in  age? 
Why  fiction  shines  more  bright  than  truth, 

Upon  the  printed  page? 
Why  is  it  easier  to  trace 

The  faults  of  human  kind, 
Than  in  the  lowliest  of  our  race, 

Some  little  good  to  find? 

147 


WHY  IS  IT? 

Why  are  the  choicest  gems  of  earth 

Hid  deepest  in  the  ground? 
Why  are  the  pearls  of  highest  worth 

Beneath  the  ocean  found? 
Why  are  earth's  highest  joys  we  know, 

As  fleeting  as  the  breath? 
Why  do  the  sweetest  flowers  blow 

One  day,  then  droop  in  death? 

Why  is  it  that  when  woman  falls 

From  virtue's  lofty  plane, 
No  woman's  hand  will  heed  her  call 

To  lift  her  back  again? 
Why  is  it  that  when  woman  errs, 

(Man  equally  to  blame), 
The  suffering  and  woe  are  tiers, 

He  does  not  bear  the  shame? 

Why  is  it  life  has  grief  and  pain 

Instead  of  naught  but  joy? 
Why  is  there  always  some  fell  bane 

Our  pleasures  to  destroy? 
Is  it  because  there's  One  above, 

To  Whom  all  praise  be  given, 
Who  chastens  us  in  holy  love, 

To  make  us  fit  for  heaven? 


148 


THE     CHRISTIAN     PAUPER'S    FUNERAL. 


NO  sad-toned  bell  doth  sound, 
To  tell  the  tidings  'round, 
A  soul  hath  flown. 
No  mourner's  tears  are  shed, 
Where  his  cold  form  lies  dead, 
Unwatched,  alone. 

A  plain,  cheap  box  contains 
All  that  on  earth  remains 

Of  one  whose  life, 
With  hunger,  want  and  woe, 
Such  as  the  wretched  know, 

Was  one  long  strife. 

No  kin  on  earth  had  he; 
Alone  he  wearily 

Plodded  through  life. 
Around  his  dying  bed 
No  mourning  tears  were  shed 

By  child  or  wife. 

No  panegyric  sweet 
The  priestly  lips  repeat, 
Over  his  clay; 

149 


THE  CHRISTIAN  PAUPER'S  IWRIAL. 

Forgotten  will  he  be, 

By  human  memory, 

In  one  brief  day. 

Friendless  he  died  alone, 
Unheard  his  last,  low  moan, 

By  mortal  ear: 

They  found  him  cold  and  dead, — 
Dead  on  his  pauper  bed, — 

No  watcher  near. 

They  placed  him  'neath  the  ground, 
And  heap  a  rude  earth-mound 

Over  the  dead. 
No  flower  blossoms  there, 
Planted  with  loving  care, 

Above  his  head. 


150 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 


AN  old  man  and  his  good  wife  were   seated  all 
alone, 
Beside  the  cheerful  firelight  that  on  their  features 

shone; 
The  silver  hairs,  by  sorrow  bleached,  becrowned 

each  aged  head, 

And  with  a  low,  sad  voice,  the  wife  unto  her  hus- 
band said: 

"I  wonder  where  our  Willie  is  this  dark  and  stormy 

night? 
I  only  wish  we  had  him  here  by  our  own  fireside 

bright. 
'Tis  fifteen  years  ago  to-night  since  Willie  left  his 

home, 
And  we  have  never  heard  from  him,  where'er  the 

boy  may  roam. 

"I've  often  thought  we  both  were  harsh  and  cruelly 

severe. 
We  tried  to  bring  him  up  too  strict; — we  tried  to 

make  him  fear 
Instead  of  love  us,  as  he  would  have  done  had  we 

been  mild; 
But  by  our  harsh   words   and   our   acts   we   drove 

away  the  child. 
151 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

"I  never  will   forget  that  night,   the  night  he  left 

our  roof; — 
We  spoke  to  him   in   bitter  tones,   with  words  of 

harsh  reproof. 
I  know  he'd  done  some  little  act  we'd  told  him  not 

to  do; 
But   Willie   listened    silently  until    we  both    were 

through. 

"And  then  he  rose  up  from  his  chair  and  walked 
toward  the  door, — 

A  look  of  sadness  in  his  face  we'd  never  seen 
before; 

For  Willie's  heart  seemed  always  light  and  full  of 
joy  and  pride; 

He  seemed  to  look  at  everything  upon  the  bright- 
est side. 

"Before  he  passed  outside   the  door,    he   stopped 

and  turned  around 
And  spoke  to  us  with  trembling  words  and  voice  of 

hollow  sound: — 
'I  cannot  find  the  love  at  home  for  which  my  heart 

appeals, — 
I'll  go  and   find  elsewhere,    perhaps,   some     heart 

that  for  me  feels.' 

"He  spoke  and  passed  out  in  the  night;  we  heard 

.  his  steps  depart, 

And  every  footfall  seemed  to  crush  down  deep  into 
my  heart. 

152 


THE  WANDERERS  RETURN. 

We've  never  looked  upon  his  face  since  that  dark, 

dreary  night, 
But  often  have  we  prayed  to  God  to  guide  our  boy 

aright. 

"Our  home  has  been  a  saddened  one  these  fifteen 

dreary  years; 
We've  wept,   when  we  have  talked   of    him,    such 

bitter,  briny  tears; 
We've  prayed  that  he  might  win  a    place    among 

respected  men, 
But  all  our  prayers  and  all  our  tears   won't  bring 

him  back  again. 

"I  thought  I  heard  a  rap,  just  now,  upon  the  out- 
side door; 

Go,  husband,  see!  I  thought  I  heard  the  rapping 
once  before. 

It  may  be  that  some  traveler,  perchance,  has  lost 
his  way, 

And  saw  our  house  and  stopped  to  ask  for  guid- 
ance or  to  stay." 

The  husband  rose  and  ope'd  the  door.  A  form 
stood  just  outside, 

Which,  to  the  old  man's  questioning  look,  in  trem- 
bling tones  replied: 

"I've  traveled  miles  since  morning  broke,  and  feel 

so  weak  and  sore, 
I    called   to    crave   admittance  at    your   hospitable 

door; 

153 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

I  only  ask  for  food  and  rest,  a  place  to  sleep  to- 
night, 

And  then  my  journey  will  renew  at  early  morning 
light." 

No  chord  within  the  old  man's  heart,   warm   pity 

seemed  to  feel, 
But  in  stern  tones  he  answered  thus  the  wanderer's 

appeal: 

"We    keep    no    inn    nor    lodging-house; — there's 

plenty  near  at  hand, 
Who'll  lodge  and  feed  the  wanderer  with  money  at 

command; 
Such  places  you  should  seek,   not  this;  so   go  you 

there,  I  pray,"- 
And  waved   his  hand  as  if   to    warn    the   traveler 

away. 

Then  spake  the  good  wife  from   her  chair  beside 

the  firelight  glow, 
Which  showed  a  face  deep  seamed  with  care,   and 

hair  as  white  as  snow: 
"O  husband,  we've  a  boy  somewhere,    unless    the 

child  be  dead, 
Who  mayhap  now  is  asking  for  some  place  to  lay 

his  head. 

"We'll  take  the  stranger  in  and  give  him  welcome 

and  our  care; 
We've  food  enough  and  beds  enough,  our  bounty 

let  him  share, 

154 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

And  mayhap,  should  our  wandering  boy  be  home- 
less this  dark  night, 

Some  stranger  hearts  may  welcome  him  beside 
their  fireside  bright." 

The    husband    opened    wide    the    door    to    let    the 

traveler  in; 
A  tall  and  comely  man  was  he,  with  silky-bearded 

chin. 
The  good  wife  gave  one  startled  look,    one  scream 

of  joy,  and  then 
She    clasped    him    in   her   arms    and    cried:    "Our 

Willie's  home  again!" 

The  strong  arms  clasped  those  aged   forms  in  one 

close,  fond  embrace, 
While  tears  of  joy   and   happiness   coursed    down 

each  wrinkled  face; 
For   'twas  their  son,  this  wanderer,   returned,    no 

more  to  roam, 
But  with  his  presence  and  his  wealth,   to  bless  the 

dear,  old  home. 

For  he  had  wealth  in  ample  store,  brought  from 
far  distant  lands; — 

Not  bought  by  crime  and  godless  deeds,  but  earned 
by  unstained  hands; 

And  often  do  the  happy  three,  beside  the  hearth- 
stone bright, 

Thank  God  the  wanderer  returned  on  that  dark, 
stormy  night. 

155 


THE  BACKWOODS  PREACHER. 


HE  could  not  boast  of  college  lore  acquired, 
But  love  for  God  and  man   his  whole  soul 

fired. 

Where'er  his  feet  the  forest  pathway  trod, 
The  settlers  welcomed  him,  that  "Man  of  God." 
His  sinewy  arms  the  glittering  axe  could   wield, 
Or  guide  the  plow  across  the  stump-strewn  field, 
Or  point  the  rifle  with  unerring  aim, 
And  send  the  bullet  through  the  panther's  frame. 

His  garments  ne'er  were  pressed  by  tailor's  goose, 
Nor  fashioned  for  display,  but  rather,  use; — 
His  good  wife's  nimble  fingers  cut  and  made 
The  garments  which  his  reverend  form  arrayed. 
Each  elbow  of  his  coat  displayed  a  patch, 
With  one  upon  each  knee,  the  same  to  match; 
His  boots  were  made  the  forest  paths  to  thread, 
And  not  the  parlor's  carpets  soft  to  tread. 

His  presence  cheered  the  toil-worn  settler's  life, 
And  eased  the  duties  of  the  patient  wife; 
With  counsel  born  of  tender,  soulful  love, 
He  sought  their  little  troubles  to  remove. 
The  children  loved  to  gather  'round  his  knee, 
And  gaze  into  his  face  admiringly, 
While  he,  with  homely  words  and  accents  sweet, 
Some  story  from  the  bible  would  repeat; — 

156 


THE  BACKWOODS  PREACHER. 

How  faithful  Abraham  on  the  altar  laid 
His  son,  and  how  his  arm  by  God  was  stayed, 
And  he  commanded  to  release  the  boy 
And  lead  him  to  his  home  again  in  joy; — 
How  Joseph,  by  his  cruel  brethren  sold, 
Lived  to  befriend  them  and  their  father  old; — 
How  David  slew  the  giant  with  a  stone, 
And  lived  to  sit  upon  a  nation's  throne; — 

How  Daniel  in  the  lion's  den  was  thrown 

By  wicked  men,  and  left  to  die  alone; 

But  God  held  back  the  beasts  with  His  strong  arm, 

Nor  suffered  them  to  do  His  prophet  harm; — 

How  angels  sang  on  that  eventful  morn 

When  Christ  the  Savior  of  mankind  was  born; — 

How  that  same  Christ  whom  bad  men  crucified, 

Asked  God  for  pardon  for  His  foes,  and  died. 

His  house  of  worship  was  the  settlers'  home, 

Or    forest   wild    roofed    o'er    with    heaven's    broad 

dome; 

Nor  recked  he  where  he  preached  or  knelt  in  prayer, 
So  that  the  Spirit  of  his  God  was  there. 
The  settlers  gathered  on  the  Sabbath  day, 
From  far  and  near,  to  hear  him  preach  and  pray, 
And  souls  drank  in  the  blessed  message  poured 
From  lips  that  spake  in  love,  the  Master's  word. 

He  practiced  not  the  rhetorician's  art, 
But  spake  the  language  of  a  guileless  heart, 
O'erflowing  with  a  love  as  deep  and  wide 
As  ocean's  bounds  marked  by  the  swelling  tide. 
157 


THE  BACKWOODS  PREACHER. 

The  swaying  tree-tops  seem  to  bend  an  ear, 
His  innate,  untrained  eloquence  to  hear; 
And  when  his  voice  arose  in  notes  of  song 
The  birds  joined  in  to  help  the  strains  along. 

Methinks  I  see  e'en  now  his  reverend  form, 
Like  some  tall  pine  unharmed  by  many  a  storm. 
Towering  aloft  in  majesty  alone, 
While  lesser  trees  the  tempest  has  o'erthrown. 
Methinks  I  see  his  locks  of  silvered  hair, 
Circling  a  crown  by  age  and  thought  made  bare; 
The  steel-bowed  glasses  resting  on  his  nose, 
Cover  his  eyes,  but  yet  their  light  disclose. 

One  bony  hand  is  pointing  toward  the  skies, 
The  other  one  on  the  sacred  volume  lies, 
While  he  expounds  Jehovah's  great  command, 
In  language  plain  backwoodsmen  understand. 
Anon  the  tear-drops  steal  adown  his  cheeks, 
While  of  the  Savior's  love  to  man  he  speaks, 
Coupling  the  dire  decrees  'gainst  sinful  man, 
With  Mercy's  offers  of  Salvation's  plan. 

Each  hearer  listens  with  attentive  ear, 
The  gospel  message  from  his  lips  to  hear; 
Nor  heed  they  that  his  language  is  uncouth, — 
They  know  that  their  pastor's  words  are  gems   of 

truth. 

They  love  him,  for  they've  tried  him  and  they  know 
He'll  stand  close  by  their  side  in  weal  or  woe, 
With  hand  and  voice  to  comfort  and  to  cheer, 
When  death's   dark,  chilling  shades  are    drawing 

near. 

158 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL-MEETING. 


THE  farmers  and  their  stalwart   sons  of  Dis- 
trict Number  Four, 
Convened  within  the  old  schoolhouse,  in   numbers 

twice  a  score, 
To  vote  for  district  officers   to  serve  the  coming 

year, 

And  transact  other  business  such  as  might  to  them 
appear. 

A  candle  in  an  inkstand  thrust,  gave  forth  a  sickly 

gleam, 
That  made  the  shadows  on  the  walls  like  hideous 

goblins  seem. 
Back   in    one   dismal    corner  lurked    some   six    or 

seven  boys 
Who  came    to    show    their    breeding  and   skill   in 

making  noise. 

Old    Nathan    Jones,    a    pompous   man,    extremely 

adipose, 
Drew  fortn  his  pocket  handkerchief  and  loudly  blew 

his  nose; 
Then    slowly  rose  upon  his   feet,    ahemmed,    and 

cleared  his  throat, 
And  said,  "I've  a  few  words  to  say,  then  we'll  per- 

ceed  to  vote! 

159 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL-MEETING. 

"Perhaps  some   of  you   gentlemen   don't   feel  the 

awful  weight 
That's  restin'  on   our  shoulders  here;   I   tell   you, 

friends,  it's  great. 
Of  course  poor  folks,  like  most  of  you,  don't  hardly 

realize, 
But  we  that's  got  the  money,   look  at   things   with 

clearer  eyes. 

"We've  got  to  practice  'conomy  in  Deestrict  Num- 
ber Four, 

An'  cut  expenses  down  somewhat, — about  a  third 
or  more. 

We've  paid  out  too  much  money,  altogether,  this 
past  year, 

An'  all  the  burden  comes  upon  a  few  of  us  that's 
here. 

"I  haint  no  hand  at  findin'  fault,  an'  don't  when 
things  goes  right, 

An'  that's  the  reason  why  I  come  to  talk  to  you  to- 
night. 

I  want  to  git  expenses  down  to  what  they  ort  to  be 

An'  make  this  deestrict-robbin'  give  place  to  strict 
'conomy. 

"We've  paid  out  for  the  year  just  past, a  pooty  good, 

round  sum, — 
Almost  a  hundred  dollars  for  six  months   schoolin' 

done; 

160 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL-MEETING. 

We  ort  to  hire  a  teacher  here  for  fifty  cents  a  day; 
I  think  thet  price  is  big  enough, — all  we  had  ort  to 
pay. 

"An'  let  the  teacher  board  around  as  teachers  used 

to  do, 
So  that  the  payin'  don't  all  come  so   heavy  on   us 

few; 
I  believe  in  so  dividin'  things  that  all  can  do  their 

share, 
An'  I  am  sure  you  won't  deny  that  proposition's 

fair. 

"When  I  was  young  an'  went  to  school,  the  teacher 

boarded  'round, 
An'  everybody  thought   'twas  right;   no  fault  was 

ever  found. 
I  got    my  education   there  in   that   same   deestrict 

school, 
An'  whenjt  comes  to  learnin,'  no   man  takes  me 

for  a  fool." 

And  then  he  blew  his  nose  again  and  placidly  sat 

down, 
And    gazed    upon    the    audience   with    magisterial 

frown; 
As  if  to  say,  "I've  made  my  speech,   let  him  who 

dare,  oppose!" 
Then  from  his  seat  back  near  the  stove,   old  Jacob 

Thompson  rose. 

161 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL-MEETING. 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  "I  can't  agree  with  brother 

Jones  to-night; 

His  notions  of  economy  I  hardly  think  are  right; 
There's  such  a  thing  as  saving  where  'tis  better  to 

expend, 
And  cheapest  things,  we  often  find,  are  dearest  in 

the  end. 

"Last  year  we  had  a  teacher  here,  the  cheapest  we 

could  find; 
I  think  our  district  never'll   want  another  of  that 

kind. 
We  paid  the  lowest  wages  we  have  paid  in  many  a 

year, 
And  when  we  come  to  sum  it  up,  it  cost  us  mighty 

dear! 

"We  didn't  get  no  benefit  for  all   that  we've  paid 

out; 
The  teacher,  near  as  I  could  learn,  was  nothing  but 

a  lout. 
He  didn't  know  enough  to  teach,   or  else  he  tried 

to  shirk, 
At  all  events,   'tis  plain   to  see  he  didn't  do    his 

work. 

"I  want  to  see  our  district  school  the  best  there  is 

in  town; 
But  we  can't  make  it  so  by  putting  teachers'  wages 

down. 

]62 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL-MEETING. 

My  vote  shall  go  to  any  man  to  be  our  next  trustee 
Who'll   do    his    best    to    serve    the    school    in    his 
capacity." 

Then  Jacob   quietly    sat    down,    and    Jones    again 

arose, 
And  whisking  out  his  handkerchief,    once  more  he 

blew  his  nose; 
Then,  with  the   most   sarcastic  words"  his  tongue 

could  bring  to  use, 
Commenced  to  pour  on  Thompson's  head  a  torrent 

of  abuse. 

Then  Thompson's  friends  declared  this  course  was 

neither  fair  nor  right, 
And    coats  were  quickly  thrown  aside   prognostic 

of  a  fight; 
While  Nathan's  satellites  began  to  put  on  martial 

show, 
And  loudly  called  on  Thompson's  friends  to  test  it 

blow  for  blow. 

The  air  grew  thick   with   brawny  fists,    each  voice 

joined  in  the  din, — 
Each  party  dared    the    other   one    the  carnage   to 

begin. 
The  God  of  War  grinned  hideously  to  urge  on  the 

affray 
And    gentle   Peace   her  pinions   spread  and   sadly 

flew  away. 

163 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL-MEETING. 

The    moderator    loudly    rapped    for   order    but   in 

vain, 
And   shouted   to   the  angry  men   from  fighting  to 

refrain. 
His  shouts  and  raps  accomplished  naught,  but  only 

strained  his  lungs, 
Until    the   angry   ones  completely  tired   out   their 

tongues. 

No    eyes    were    blacked,   no   bones  were   crushed, 

no  human  gore  was  shed, 
No  coroner  was   notified   to    come    and    view    the 

dead; 
But  what  might  otherwise  have  been  a  bloody  scene 

that  night, 
Became  a  bloodless  one  because  each  was  afraid 

to  fight. 

The  men  put  on  their  coats   again  and  sulkily   sat 

down; 
Each  gazed  on  his  opponent  with  a  grim,  unfriendly 

frown; 
Then  some  one    nominated    Jacob  Thompson  for 

trustee, 
And    Nathan   Jones's   friends   named  Jones  to  be 

their  nominee. 

The    balloting    proceeded    with    some    necessary 

noise, 
And  now    and    then    a    rousing    cheer    proceeding 

from  the  boys, 

164 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL-MEETING. 

Until  at  length  the  polls  were  closed,  the  balloting 

was  done, 
And   Thompson    was    elected   by   the    majority    of 


Then    Thompson's    friends     cheered    lustily,   and 

swung  their  hats  on  high, 
And  all  the  boys  joined  in  the  din  with  whoop  and 

yell  and  cry; 
But  Nathan's  friends,  dejected,  slowly  passed  out 

through  the  door, 
Feeling  that  things  had  gone  to  wreck  in  District 

Number  Four. 


165 


WHO  TOOK  HIM. 


ACK  from  the  grand,  luxurious  homes, 

Where  dwell  the  rich  and  great, 
here  costly  viands  tempt  the  taste, 
And  liveried  servants  wait, — 
Back  from  the  scenes  of  pride  and  wealth, 

Beside  a  narrow  street, 
Where  want  and  penury  combine, 
To  make  man's  woes  complete. 

Within  a  dismal  attic  room, 

Upon  a  narrow  bed, 
A  sick  and  crippled  boy  reclined, 

Sorrowing  for  the  dead. 
His  mother's  corpse  had  just  been  placed 

Within  a  pauper's  grave; 
No  lot  seemed  left  for  him  but  death, 

Though  others  he  might  crave. 

Within  that  little,  dismal  room, 

His  nearest  neighbors  came, 
To  talk  about  what  should  be  done 

With  Jimmie,  sick  and  lame. 
One  neighbor  said  his  house  was  small, 

His  children  rude  and  wild; 
And  hence,  however  much  he  wished, 

He  could  not  take  the  child. 

166 


WHO  TOOK  HIM? 

Another  feared  that  doctor's  bills 

Would  run  up  long  and  large, 
And  burdensome  on  him,  if  he 

Should  take  the  child  in  charge. 
One  woman  said  if  she  were  well 

And  strong  as  some  she  knew, 
She'd  take  the  child  and  care  for  him 

The  best  that  she  could  do. 

Another  said  the  almshouse  is 

The  place  for  such  as  he;-^ 
Such  children  never  should  be  born 

To  live  on  charity! 
As  if  the  foolish  woman  thought 

Poor  Jimmie  was  to  blame 
For  being  brought  into  the  world, 

A  cripple,  sick  and  lame. 

While  thus  they  talked  they  little  knew, 

How  cruel  was  the  smart, 
Their  careless  words  inflicted  on 

Poor  little  Jimmie 's  heart. 
He  turned  his  face  towards  the  wall, 

His  bitter  grief  to  hide; 
God  only  seemed  to  love  the  child; 

He  had  no  friend  beside. 

Then  one  by  one  the  neighbors  passed 

Out  from  the  dismal  room, 
Till  none  were  left  but  he  alone, 

Surrounded  by  the  gloom. 

167 


WHO  TOOK'  HIM  f 

Dark  night  came  oh  with  dismal  shapes, 

All  fraught  with  terrors  -wild; 
No  sound  disturbed  the  deep  gloom,   save 

The  sobbing  of  the  child 

Next  morn  a  kind-souled  neighbor  came 

And  looked  into  the  room, 
She  thought  the  child  might  hungry  be, 

Or  lonely  in  the  gloom. 
The  little  light  that  entered  there, 

Through  one  poor  window  small, 
But  half  disclosed  the  ragged  bed, 

And  dingy,  mouldy  wall. 

She  stood  a  moment  at  the  door, 

To  hear  if  Jimmie  stirred, 
But  though  she  listened  eagerly, 

No  sound  of  life  she  heard. 
With  quickened  steps  she  crossed  the  room, 

And  stopped  beside  the  bed; — 
Poor  Jimmie's  crippled  form  lay  there, 

But  cold  and  still  and  dead. 

Hugged  closely  to  the  dingy  wall, 

As  if  he  feared  the  night 
Had  terrors  in  its  gloominess, 

His  timorous  soul  to  fright, — 
Surrounded  by  the  gloomy  shades, 

No  ear  to  hear  him  groan, 
No  voice  to  soothe  the  dying  pain, 

Poor  Jimmie  died  alone. 

168 


WHO  TOOK  HIM? 

An  undried  tear-drop  resting  there, 

Upon  his  pale,  cold  cheek, 
Told  more  of  man's  unfriendliness, 

Than  many  words  could  speak. 
The  neighbors  gathered  in  the  room, 

And  many  tears  they  shed; 
Those  who  were  cold  to  him  in  life, 

Now  wept  beside  him,  dead. 

No  question  now  of  who  should  take 

And  care  for  that  poor  boy; 
God  took  him  to  His  own,  bright  home, 

To  everlasting  joy. 
The  richest  lords  on  earth  are  poor, 

Beside  poor  Jimmie  now; — 
A  crown,  more  bright  than  earthly  ones, 

Is  resting  on  his  brow. 


169 


THE  SPRING  ON  THE    HILLSIDE. 


HOW    well    I    remember    the    farm   where    I 
rambled, 
In   childhood's    bright    days   in    the   years   long 

ago,— 
The   steep    hillside  pasture  where   lambs  skipped 

and  gamboled 

And  bleated  in  joy  as  they  raced  to  and  fro. 
And  well  I  remember  the  spring  that  came  gushing 
From    'neath  a  huge  rock    on    the    side    of   the 

hill;  — 

Its  clear  sparkling  waters  came  leaping   and  rush- 
ing 
Adown  the  steep  slope  in  a  bright,   purling  rill. 


The  cattle  and  sheep  used  to  come  there  together, 

Their  fill  of  its  clear,  cooling  waters  to  drink, 
And  stand  in  the  rill  in  the  hot,   summer  weather, 

And  crop  the  rich  grasses  that  grew  on  its  brink. 
With    ripple   and  gurgle    it  seemed  to  be  saying: 

"I've  a  mission  of  good  in  the  world  to  fulfill; — 
The  wish  of  the  Master  I'm  only  obeying, 

And  doing  my  part  to  display  His  good  will." 

170 


THE  SPRING  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

No  water,  I  thought,  could  be  sweeter  or  colder 
Than  that  of  the  sparkling  and  bright,    dancing 

rill 
That    gushed  from  the  base  of   the   moss-covered 

boulder, 
And    fan  singing  down  the  steep  slope    of    the 

hill. 

Is  igh  for  a  drink  from  that  cool,  sparkling  fountain 
That   tasted    so  sweet    in    those    bright    days    of 

yore; 

I  sigh  for  a  ramble  o'er  meadow  and  mountain, 
To    gaze   on   the  scenes  of  my   childhood   once 
more. 


171 


A  LADY'S  HAT. 


To  a  lady  who  requested  the  author  to  write  a  poem  describing 
his  Ideal  hat. 

INDEED  Miss  Abbie,  what  you  ask 
Is  certainly  the  hardest  task 
I've  ever  undertaken: — 
To  write  about  a  lady's  hat, 
And  write  in  poetry  at  that, 
My  muse  will  hardly  waken. 

If  all  the  world  should  undertake 
To  force  my  skilless  hands  to  make, 

My  style  of  lady's  bonnet, — 
And  then  when  done,  should  it  express 
My  beau  ideal,  I  should  guess 

The  world  would  frown  upon  it. 

'Tis  difficult  to  tell  to  you, 

The  shape  or  size,  or  e'en  the  hue 

I'd  have  a  lady's  bonnet; 
Or  how  I'd  have  the  ribbons  tied, 
The  spangles  up  and  down  the  side, 

Or  e'en  the  flowers  on  it. 

I  do  not  think  I'd  have  it  high, 
Nor  low,  broad-rimmed  to  shield  the  eye, 
Nor  plain  to  please  the  preachers. 

172 


A  LADY'S  HAT. 

I  never  should  admire  a  "scoop," 
Those  horrid  things  that  make  you  stoop 
To  see  the  wearer's  features. 

I'd  have  a  lady  young  and  fair, 

Her  style  of  bonnet  choose  with  care, 

And  make  a  good  selection, — 
Something  to  match  her  form  and  size, 
Coquettish  like  her  sparkling  eyes, 

And  suiting  her  complexion. 

I'd  have  a  lady  old  and  gray, 

Wear  something  not  too  bright  and  gay, 

But  suited  to  her  station:  — 
Something  plain  and  dark  in  hue, 
Neither  white,  nor  red,  nor  blue, 

Suggesting  moderation. 

I'd  have  a  bride  wear  naught  but  white, 
Suggestive  of  her  hopes  so  bright 

That  see  no  dark  to-morrow:  - 
But  mourner's  hat  of  darkest  hue, 
Adorned  with  crape  to  plainly  shew 

The  depth  of  her  great  sorrow. 

I'd  have  a  lady's  hat  so  made, 
Whatever  might  be  its  shape  or  shade, 

Its  style  should  suit  the  wearer:  — 
I'd  have  it  add  to  beauty's  form, 
Enhancing  each  attractive  charm, 

And  make  a  fair  face  fairer. 

173 


A  LADY'S  HAT. 

I  'd  have  some  bows,  a  feather  too, 
And  flowers  of  a  modest  hue, 

Gemmed  with  the  dews  of  morning: 
1  'd  have  it  placed  upon  the  head 
So  neatly,  that  naught  in  its  stead 

Could  be  half  so  adorning. 


174 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIDOW. 


PAR  up  the  steep  and  rugged  mountain  side, 
Where     towering     pine    trees    spread    their 

branches  wide, 

And  mountain  oaks  and  maples  drop  their  leaves 
When   Autumn's  blasts  wail  through  the   ripened 

sheaves, 
Where    wintry    blasts   howl    through    the    leaf-reft 

trees, 

And  drifting  snow  whirls  on  the  chilling  breeze; 
Or,  where  in  hot  and  sultry  summer  days, 
The  feathered  songsters  warble  forth  their  lays, 
And  flowers  bloom  in  colors  bright  and  rare, 
And  shed  their  fragrance  on  the  ambient  air, 
There,  on  that  steep  and  rugged  mountain  spot, 
There  stands  a  soldier's  widow's  lonely  cot. 

Within  sits  she  whose  lone  and  saddened  life. 
With  happiness  and  pleasure  once  was  rife, — 
A  husband's  arm  she  loved  to  lean  upon, 
And  hear  the  prattle  of  her  little  one. 
Those  days  for  her  were  filled  with  sweetest  joy, 
And  want  and  penury  could  not  annoy. 

But  when  Secession's  fierce,  destroying  hand 
Was  reared  aloft  to  smite  our  much-loved  land, 
And  desecrate  upon  the  shrine  of  Mars, 

175 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIDOW. 

Our  nation's  glorious  galaxy  of  stars, 
That  husband's  patriot  soul  in  ardor  rose 
Against  the  Union's  blind  and  bloody  foes. 

His  wfeeping  wife  he  bade  a  fond  adieu, 
Then  kissed  his  little  boy,  then  donned  the  "blue," 
And  with  his  soldier  comrades  marched  away 
To  fight  for  flag  and  country  in  the  fray. 

Days,  weeks  and  months  dragged  drearily  on, 

With  scanty  tidings  from  the  absent  one; 

And  as  each  night  the  young  wife  knelt  to  pray, 

Hoping  good  tidings  on  the  coming  day, 

She  prayed  that  Heavenly  Power  might  guard  the 

form 
She  loved  so  well,  and  shield  it  from  War's  storm. 

One  summer  day  when  eve  was  drawing  nigh, 
And  Luna's  rays  were  lighting  up  the  sky, 
A  letter  came.     With  nervous  hand  she  tore 
The  fastening   seal,    then   glanced   the  white  page 

o'er. 

A  shriek  of  woe  burst  from  her  stricken  soul! 
A  loud,  despairing  shriek  that  told  the  whole! 
And  then  her  limp  and  lifeless  form  sank  down 
In  one  long,  death-like  swoon,  upon  the  ground. 

The  startled  child  forsook  his  happy  play, 
And  crept  across  to  where  his  mother  lay; 
Then  sought  in  vain,  with  childish  artlessness, 
To  wake  her  with  his  pleading  and  caress. 

176 


THE  SOLDIERS  WIDOW. 

The  morning  came.    Kind  neighbors  gathered  'round 

And  raised  her  lifeless  form  from  off  the  ground. 

An  open  letter  lying  by  her  side, 

Told  the  sad  tale.      Her  husband  died 

Upon  the  field  of  blood,  where  rang  the  steel, 

Where  flowed  the  blood   and   burst    the    cannon's 

peal, 

And  carnage  fiercely   raged, — where   bullets    sped 
Upon  their  deadly  mission,  and  the  dead 
In  grim  and  ghastly  heaps  lay  piled  around, 
And  human  gore  in  streams  traversed  the  ground, 
He  fell  among  the  bravest  of  the  brave, 
And  died,  his  land  and  Freedom's  cause  to  save. 

The  widow  lives,  but  life  for  her  is  drear; 
She  lives,  but  only  for  her  child  so  dear; 
And  oft  she  tells  him  of  that  fatal  day, 
When  happiness  forever  passed  away; 
And  bids  him,  while  she  holds  him  to  her  side, 
To  love  that  land  for  which  his  father  died. 


177 


THE  APPLE-PARING  BEE  OF  OLDEN 
TIME. 


CHEERILY  the  farmer's  children,— 
\.     Noisily  and  with  delight, 
Gather  in  the  rosy  apples 

For  the  "paring  bee"  at  night. 
Glorious  times  they  have  in  autumn 

When  the  laden  apple  trees 
Shed  their  loads  of  luscious  fruitage 

For  the  evening  paring  bees. 

When  the  twilight  shadows  gather, 

And  the  candle's  glimmering  light 
Shines  amid  the  gathering  darkness 

Of  the  gloomy  autumn  night, 
Then  the  country  lads  and  lasses 

Gather  in  from  far  and  near, 
To  assist  in  paring  apples, 

And  enjoy  the  evening's  cheer. 

All  around  the  spacious  kitchen, 

Some  on  benches,  some  on  chairs, 
Sit  the  merry  youths  and  maidens, 

Some  in  groups  and  some  in  pairs. 
While  they  pare  the  rosy  apples 

With  deft  fingers  plied  apace, 
Lively,  sparkling  conversation 

Lights  with  smiles  each  youthful  face. 

178 


THE  APPLE-PARING  BEE  OF  OLDEN  TIME. 

Brightly  burns  the  glowing  backlog 

In  the  wide-mouthed  fireplace, 
Making  sparks  that  up  the  chimney, 

Joyously  each  other  chase. 
O,  what  memories  bright  and  golden, 

Of  the  youthful  days  now  flown, 
Crowd  the  mind  with  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Known  around  the  old  hearthstone! 

Jokes  and  merry  peals  of  laughter 

Help  to  make  the  evening's  cheer, 
And  no  thought  of  woe  or  sorrow 

Is  permitted  to  appear. 
Bashful  swains  cast  stealthy  glances 

Toward  the  face  each  loves  the  best, 
While  sly  Cupid  plants  his  arrows 

Deeply  in  each  youthful  breast. 

When  the  evening's  work  is  ended, 

Then  the  farmer's  bustling  wife, 
Aided  by  her  blooming  daughters, 

Hands  each  guest  a  plate  and  knife; 
Then  they  bring  the  luscious  cookies, 

And  the  golden  pumpkin  pies, — 
Choicest  viands  for  the  palate, 

Such  as  e'en  gods  won't  despise. 

After  lunch  the  chairs  and  benches 
Quickly  disappear  from  sight, 

And  the  room  is  cleared  for  dancing, — 
Chiefest  pleasure  of  the  night. 

179 


THE  APPLE-PAKING  HEE  OF  OLDEN   TIME. 

Then  some  rustic,  fiddling  genius 

Tunes  his  wheezy  violin, 
Touches  up  the  bow  with  rosin, 

For  the  dance  will  soon  begin. 

Now  the  merry  youths  and  maidens 

Take  their  places  on  the  floor, 
And  the  older  men  and  matrons 

Talk  about  the  balls  of  yore, 
When  they  too  were  young  and  merry, 

And  it  was  their  chief  delight, 
To  join  in  such  scenes  of  pleasure 

As  they're  witnessing  to-night. 

How  their  light  feet  swiftly  trip  it, 

Dancing  gaily  'round  the  ring! 
And  some  rustic,  practiced  dancer 

Wildly  cuts  the  "pigeon  wing.'1 
How  the  player  sweats  and  fiddles 

"Old  Zip  Coon"  and  "Rory  Moore!" 
While  the  dancers'  feet  keep  pattering 

To  the  tune,  upon  the  floor. 

But  at  length,  the  tall,  old  house  clock 

Tells  the  morning  hour  is  near, 
And  from  out  the  nearest  farmyard, 

Sounds  the  voice  of  chanticleer. 
Then  the  maidens  don  their  bonnets, 

While  each  youth,  with  quivering  knees, 
Asks  his  girl  in  trembling  whisper, 

"May  1  be  your  escort,  please?" 

180 


THE  APPLE-PARING  BEE  OF  OLDEN  TIME. 

O,  those  happy  days  are  over, — 

Over  to  return  no  more! 
But  their  memories  bright  and  golden, 

Cheer  us  till  we  reach  Death's  shore. 
When  grandchildren  gather  'round  us, 

Clambering  upon  our  knees, 
How  our  hearts  thrill  while  we  tell  them 

Of  those  old-time  "Paring  Bees." 


181 


SIN  I 
It's 
thes 


THE   TRAMP'S  STORY. 

sleep  in  yer  barn  to-night,  Mister? 
t's  cold  lyin'  out  on  the  ground, 
Wit'h  these  fall  rains  a  drizzlin'  so  chilly, 

An'  these  cold  winds  a  whistlin'  around. 
Oh,  no,  I  don't  use  no  tobacker 
Nor  carry  no  matches  to  light, 
An'  I  won't  harm  a  thing  if  ye '11  let  me 
Jest  sleep  in  yer  barn  over  night. 

"Well,  no;  I  haint  had  any  supper, 

An'  I  own  I  feel  hungry  a  bit, 
For  I  haint  had  a  mouthful  since  mornin'; 

But  I  hated  to  ask  ye  for  it. 
Did  ye  ask  me  how  long  I've  been  trampin', 

An'  livin'  this  kind  of  a  life? 
I'll  tell  ye  my  story,  kind  mister, 

Though  it's  like  cuttin'  my  heart  with  a  knife. 

"I  once  had  a  home  an'  a  fam'ly,   - 

A  wife  an'  a  sweet,  little  boy, 
An'  each  night  when  I  came  in  from  workin', 

Their  smiles  filled  my  heart  full  o'  joy. 
Of  course  I  worked  hard  for  our  livin', 

But  then  I  was  healthy  an'  strong, 
An'  the  thoughts  of  the  wife  an'  the  baby 

Kinder  eased  the  work  hours  along. 

182 


TRAMP'S  STORY. 

"It's  two  years  ago  now  last  summer, 

(I'll  never  forget  that  sad  day,) 
A  stranger  came  out  from  the  city, 

All  dressed  up  so  fine  an'  so  gay. 
He  was  tall  an'  erect  an'  nice  lookin', 

An'  'peared  like  a  man  who  had  wealth; 
He  wanted  to  stop  in  the  country 

An'  board  for  a  while  for  his  health. 

"My  wife  said  she'd  like  to  be  earnin' 

A  little  to  add  to  our  hoard, 
An'  she  coaxed  till  I  finally  consented 

The  stranger  should  come  there  to  board. 
He  seemed  to  have  plenty  of  money. 

An'  pleasant  an'  kind  in  his  way; 
He'd  fondle  an'  play  with  the  baby 

Near  half  of  the  time  ev'ry  day. 

"An'  Ellen, — my  wife's  name  was  Ellen — 

Seemed  happy  as  happy  could  be, 
An'  kept  herself  lookin'  so  nicely; — 

I  thought  it  was  done  to  please  me. 
I  wasn't  a  man  to  be  jealous 

Nor  doubtin'  the  love  of  my  wife; 
I  b'lieved  she  was  true  as  an  angel, 

An'  loved  me  with  all  of  her  life. 

"But  after  a  few  weeks,  I  noticed 

In  Ellen  a  bit  of  a  change; 
She  seemed  to  care  less  for  the  baby 

An'  me  too,  which  seemed  to  me  strange. 

183 


THE  TRAMP'S  STOKY. 

When  I'd  come  in  the  house  in  the  evenin', 
After  workin'  so  hard  through  the  day, 

She'd  sit  an'  be  lookin'  so  sober, 
An'  hardly  a  word  would  she  say. 

"A  neighbor  lived  close  by  our  dwellin', 

(Just  a  garden  betwixt  him  an'  us,) 
An'  he  told  me  he  feared  that  our  boarder 

Would  git  us,  some  day,  in  a  fuss. 
He  thought  that  the  fellow  wa'n't  honest, 

An'  didn't  mean  well  to'ards  my  wife; 
But  he  made  me  so  mad  with  such  hintin', 

I  felt  just  like  takin'  his  life. 

"I  told  him  to  mind  his  own  business, 

An'  let  other  folks's  alone, 
An'  sweep,  if  he  could,  his  own  dooryard, 

An'  I  would  attend  to  my  own. 
Oh,  fool  that  1  was  not  to  listen, 

When  I  knew  that  he  only  meant  well! 
If  I'd  took  the  advice  of  that  neighbor, 

My  life  would  have  been  less  a  hell! 

"1  thought  that  the  girl  I  had  married 

Was  true  as  a  woman  could  be: 
An'  I'd  swore  that  no  power  could  make  her 

Abandon  the  baby  or  me. 
But  I  b'lieve  that  the  finely-dressed  stranger 

Was  Satan  himself  in  disguise: 
An'  I  haint  got  so  much  blame  for  Ellen, 

For  women  aint  always  o'erwise. 

184 


THE  TRAMP'S  STORY. 

"One  day  when  I  came  from  my  workin', 

An'  whistlin'  away  in  my  joy, 
An'  thinkin'  how  happy  the  welcome 
•    I'd  git  from  my  wife  an'  my  boy; — 
I  thought  that  our  cottage  looked  lonely,  — 

No  wife  standin'  there  in  the  door 
To  give  me  a  smile  an'  a  welcome, — 

'Twas  seldom  she'd  missed  it  before. 

"I  felt  my  poor  heart  growin'  heavy, 

An'  sink  in  my  bosom  like  stone, 
When  I  looked  through  our  neat,  little  cottage 

An'  found  I  was  there  all  alone. 
I  hunted  from  garret  to  cellar, 

An'  out  in  the  garden  around;     • 
But  no  sign  of  the  baby  or  Ellen 

Was  anywhere  there  to  be  found! 

"I  saw  somethin'  looked  like  a  letter, 

Somebody  had  placed  on  the  stand, 
An'  as  soon  as  my  eyes  rested  on  it, 

I  took  it  up  into  my  hand. 
The  few  words  I  found  on  it  written, 

Were  enough  to  make  any  man  wild; — 
They  told  me  the  boarder  an'  Ellen 

Had  gone,  an'  had  taken  our  child! 

"Next  mornin'  the  neighbors  they  found  me 

A  wanderin'  'round  all  alone; 
They  said  that  my  face  looked  so  haggard, 

An'  my  eyes  like  a  crazy  man's  shone. 

185 


THE  TKAMTS  STORY. 

What  happened  I  can't  well  remember. 

Till  a  whole  week  or  so  had  gone  by; 
But  my  head  an'  my  heart  felt  on  fire, 

An'  I  wished  that  I  only  could  die! 

"The  neighbors  they  treated  me  kindly, 

An'  done  for  me  all  that  they  could; 
But  their  well-meant  expressions  of  comfort 

Didn't  do  my  poor  heart  any  good. 
I  knew  that  I  couldn't  rest  easy, 

If  it  took  ev'ry  day  of  my  life, 
Till  I'd  had  my  revenge  on  the  scoundrel 

Who'd  stolen  my  child  an'  my  wife. 

"I've  tracked  them  from  city  to  city, 

Like  a  bloodhound  I've  followed  their  trail, 
An'  often  been  footsore  an'  weary, 

'An  my  poor  heart  'most  ready  to  fail; 
But  I've  kept  the  fierce  fire  a  burnin' 

In  my  heart  till  it's  made  it  a  hell! 
An'  ev'ry  one,  most,  calls  me  crazy, 

An'  mebbe  I  am;  I  can't  tell. 

"I  found  where  they  stopped  once  last  winter, 

An'  there  my  poor  baby  had  dkd, 
I  went  to  the  grave  where  they  laid  him, 

An'  then,  for  the  first  time,  1  cried. 
I  didn't  stay  long  in  that  village, 

But  hurried  away  on  my  road; 
For  the  thought  of  my  boy  lyin'  buried, 

Seemed  urgin'  me  on  like  a  goad. 

186 


THE  TRAMPS  STOR\ . 

"Last  night  I  went  into  a  farmhouse 

To  ask  for  a  mouthful  to  eat, 
An'  while  eatin'  the  food  which  they  gave  me, 

(A  nice  piece  of  bread  an'  some  meat,) 
I  heard  the  good  farmer's  wife  tellin' 

•Her  husband  how  hard  she  had  tried 
To  find  out  the  name  of  the  woman 

Who  came  there  so  sick  an'  had  died. 

"I  don't  know  what  made  it,  but,  Mister, 

I  felt  such  a  jump  at  my  heart, 
Like  we  feel  when  some  dreadful  thing  happens 

So  sudden  it  gives  us  a  start; 
An'  somethin'  seemed  crowdin'  me  to  it, 

To  ask  the  whole  story  to  hear, 
Of  the  woman  who  came  there  in  sickness, 

An'  died  with  no  friends  of  hers  near. 

"Then  she  told  me  the  whole  story  over, 

Of  the  woman  who  came  there  one  night, 
So  sick  with  a  hot,  ragin'  fever, 

An'  died  just  before  it  was  light; — 
She  told  how  she  raved  in  her  frenzy, 

An'  called  for  her  husband  an'  child, 
In  language  so  piteous  an'  longin', 

It  made  all  the  fam'ly  'most  wild. 

"She  showed  me  the  shawl  she  wore  'round  her, 
An'  the  sight  of  it  'most  took  my  life, 

For  I  knew,  then,  the  woman  she  told  of 
Was  Ellen,  my  poor,  erring  wife! 

187 


THE  TRAMP'S  STORY. 

They  led  me  into  the  churchyard 

An'  showed  me  the  bare,  little  mound 

Where  Ellen  lay  quietly  sleeping 

Alone,  'neath  the  damp,  chilly  ground. 

"They  spoke  to  me  kind  words  of  comfort, 

But  I  begged  to  be  left  all  alone, 
For  my  grief  seemed  too  heavy  for  kindness, 

An1  my  heart  felt  as  cold  as  a  stone. 
All  night  1  lay  there  in  the  churchyard, 

Alone  with  my  Ellen — my  wife! 
An'  I  prayed  that  the  bright  light  of  mornin' 

Might  never  shine  on  me  in  life. 

"I  thought  I  heard  Ellen's  voice  speaking; 

It  seemed  to  come  up  from  the  sod, 
An'  it  asked  me  so  gently  an'  sweetly 

To  leave  my  revenge  all  to  God. 
It  pleaded  so  long  an'  so  earnest, 

That  at  last  my  hard  heart  seemed  to  melt, 
An'  I  promised  to  do  what  she  asked  me 

While  there  at  her  cold  grave  I  knelt. 

"Of  course  I'd  forgiven  poor  Ellen 

Before  she  had  asked  me  the  boon; 
But  the  man  who  stole  .her  an'  my  baby, 

I  cannot  forgive  him  so  soon. 
I  s'pose  there's  a  God  up  in  heaven, 

For  so  I've  been  taught  to  believe, 
An'  I  hope  that  He'll  give  to  the  scoundrel 

The  doom  that  he  ought  to  receive." 

188 


THE  DYING  SIOUX  CHIEF. 


WHERE    the  rugged   Rocky  Mountains    rear 
their  peaks  to  kiss  the  sky, 

And  the  flower-garnished  prairies  stretching  east- 
ward greet  the  eye, 
Dwells  a  tribe  of  dusky  warriors,  whose  forefathers 

brave  and  free, 

Roamed  the  rugged  hills  and  pariries  ere  the  white 
man  crossed  the  sea. 

In  a  little  grove  of  cottons  near  the  towering 
Rockies'  base, 

Stands  a  group  of  sturdy  warriors;  but  deep  gloom 
is  on  each  face; 

In  their  midst  a  form  is  lying,  and  each  ear  in  that 
dark  throng, 

Bends  to  catch  the  solemn  cadence  of  their  chief- 
tain's low  death  song. 

In  a  fight  with    Union   soldiers,   when   the   charge 

was  hotly  pressed, 
Fell  the  gallant  old  Sioux  chieftain  with  a  bullet  in 

his  breast; 
But  his  comrades  caught  him  falling,    bore   him  to 

the  grove  away, 
Strove    to   staunch    the    red    blood's   flowing,    and 

their  chieftain's  life  to  stay, 

189 


THE  DYING  SIOUX  CHIEF. 

But   he   knew  the  wound  was  mortal;   knew  that 

death  was  near  at  hand; 
Knew    that    soon    would    roam    his    spirit    in    the 

Indians'  Spirit  Land; 
And  a  smile  o'erspread  his  features   that   no   pain 

could  ever  dim, 
While  his  voice  in  feeble  accents  called  his  faithful 

braves  to  him. 

Then  out  spoke  the  dying  chieftain,   but  his  voice 

was  low  and  weak, 
"Gallant  brothers,  brave  Sioux  warriors,  hear  the 

dying  words  I  speak: 
Let    no    desecrating    footsteps    mar   our  fathers' 

sacred  graves; 
Guard    our  hunting-grounds  as    closely    from   the 

hated,  pale-face  braves. 

"Bury  me  beside  my  fathers,  'neath  the  tall,  wide- 
spreading  trees, 

Where  the  voice  of  the  Great  Spirit  whispers  in  the 
evening  breeze; — 

Close  beside  my  sleeping  body  place  my  faithful 
dog  and  gun; 

In  the  Spirit  Land  I'll  need  them; — brave  Sioux 
warriors,  I  have  done!" 

Then  his  mind  began  to  wander   'mong  the  years 

long  since  gone  by, 
And   in    feeble   tones    he    uttered  once   again  the 

battle-cry. 

190 


THE  DYING  SIOUX  CHIEF. 

Now    again  in   dreaming    fancy,    his    brave    Sioux 

warriors  led, 
Hurling  death  among  the  living,  scalping  now  the 

stiffening  dead. 

Dreams  he  now  of  scenes  and  dangers  in  the  years 

of  long  ago, 
When  he  chased  the  savage  panther  and  the  wild, 

fleet  buffalo — 
When  he  joined   the  thrilling  war-dance  with  his 

warriors  by  his  side — - 
When  he  wooed  the   dusky   maiden  who  was  once 

his  dark,  Sioux  bride. 

Then  again  his  fancy  pictured  the  bright  council- 
fires'  flame 

And  the  circling  warriors  shouting  honors  on  their 
chieftain's  name, 

And  his  piercing,  dark  eye  brightens  as  he  seems 
to  hear  the  sound 

Of  his  tried  and  trusted  warriors  as  they  closed  the 
circle  'round. 

But    the  changing  dream   is   over,   and  now    once 

again  he  sees 
His  stern  warriors  gathered  'round  him  'neath  the 

green-hued  cotton  trees; 
And   he  sees  their   saddened   glances    bending  on 

their  dying  chief — 
Sees    their   dusky    bosoms   heaving    in    unspoken, 

silent  grief. 

191 


THE  DYING  SIOUX  CHI  Eh'. 

Then  his  pale  lips  slowly   open  and  he  chants  the 

wild  death  song, 
And  the  gentle  whispering   zephyrs   waft  the   sad, 

weird  notes  along. 
Chants  he  of  his  deeds  of  daring,  scalps  he's  taken 

in  the  fight, 
Chants  of  massacres  and  captures  in  the  lone,  dark 

hours  of  night. 

But  his  song  grows  faint  and   fainter,   dying  into 

whispers  low, 
And  their  ears  can  scarce  distinguish   words   that 

from  his  pale  lips  flow. 
Suddenly  his  eyelids  open,  from  his  lips  escapes  a 

moan, 
Then  a  gasp,  and  his  freed  spirit  to  the  Spirit  Land 

has  flown. 

Softly  sigh  the  evening  zephyrs  through  the  lofty 
cotton  trees, 

And  their  leaflets  gently  quiver  to  the  motion  of 
the  breeze; — 

One  by  one  the  bright  stars  glimmer  where  the  day- 
light scarce  has  fled, 

Peering  down  upon  the  warriors  and  the  old  Sioux 
chieftain — dead . 


192 


CARRIE  AND  I. 

IT  was  evening,  and  the  moonlight 
Shed  a  mellow  radiance  'round, 
And  the  summer  zephyrs  murmured 

'Mong  the  leaves  with  plaintive  sound. 
Far  above  the  bright  stars  twinkled 

Like  ten  thousand  angel  eyes 
Looking  down  on  earth  below  them 
As  in  joyous,  mute  surprise. 

Side  by  side  we  two  were  sitting 

On  the  quaint,  old,  rustic  seat, 
And  a  brooklet's  limpid  waters 

Laved  the  shore  just  at  our  feet. 
Not  a  word  had  either  spoken 

For  the  last  half  hour  or  so, 
But  we  sat  in  silence,  thinking, 

While  we  watched  the  river  flow. 

I  was  wishing  that  the  brooklet 

Were  the  placid  stream  of  life, 
And  that  I  could  sail  upon  it 

With  sweet  Carrie  for  my  wife. 
What  a  blissful,  happy  voyage, 

I  was  thinking  ours  might  be 
If  my  gentle,  darling  Carrie 

Would  consent  to  sail  with  me. 

193 


CARRIE  AXD  I. 

But  I  feared  to  ask  the  question, — 

Trembled  lest  she  answer  nay, 
And  the  bright  and  rosy  vision 

Like  a  dream  be  swept  away. 
Then  I  turned  and  gazed  upon  her 

As  she  sat  unconscious  there, 
And  I  envied  the  light  zephyr 

Toying  with  her  auburn  hair. 

Then  my  head  drooped  low  and  lower 

Till  her  ringlets  swept  my  cheek, 
And  my  throbbing  heart  was  wishing 

That  my  coward  tongue  would  speak. 
Softly  stole  my  arm  around  her — 

Pressed  her  closely  to  my  side 
As  I  murmured,  "Carrie,  darling, 

Will  you  be  my  bonny  bride?" 

Not  a  word  the  maiden  answered, 

But  my  soul  was  filled  with  bliss 
When  she  turned  her  sweet  lips  upward, 

And  I  pressed  on  them  a  kiss. 
Still  the  bright  stars  glowed  and  twinkled 

In  the  azure  sea  above, 
And  we  called  them  eyes  of  angels 

Smiling  down  upon  our  love. 


194 


SECOND   PART. 


Farmer  John's  Theology 


and  other 


POEMS    IN    DIALECT. 


FARMER  JOHN'S  THEOLOGY. 


/T\HAT  church  do  I  belong  to?     Well,  I  don't 
vL/      belong  to  none, 
If  I  knew  just  which  was  the  best,   I  think  I'd  j'ine 

that  one; 
But  'mongst  so  many  creeds  an'  forms,  it's  difficult 

to  choose, 
Especially  for  a  man  like   me   who's   got   peculiar 

views. 

I  b'lieve  in  God  who  made  all  things  an'  rules  them 

by  His  will, — 
I  b'lieve  in  Christ  who  came  on  earth  His  precious 

blood  to  spill. 
I  b'lieve  there  is  a  Holy  Ghost,  an'  b'lieve  that  all 

these  three 
Are  j'ined  in  One,  and  that  They  make  the   Holy 

Trinity. 

I  b'lieve  I've  got  a  soul   to  save, — the  special  gift 

of  God, 
That  will  live  on  forever  when  this   body's   'neath 

the  sod. 
I  b'lieve  the  bible,  ev'ry  word  is  true  jest   as   'tis 

writ. 
An'  b'lieve  we'll  come  out  pooty  straight  if  we  jest 

foller  it. 

199 


FARMER  JOHN'S  THEOLOGY. 

I've  read   the   bible   through  an'    through    to    find 

which  creed  is  best; 
Which  is  the  surest,  safest  one  on  which  the  soul 

may  rest; — 
But  I  can't  find  a  word  therein  about  the  different 

creeds; — 
All  I  can  find  is  that  a  man  is  saved  by   faith  an' 

deeds. 

I've  tried  to  find  which  way  is  right,   to  sprinkle 

or  immerse; 
But  not  a  chapter  can   I  find   or  even   one   small 

verse 
That  tells  us   whether  Christ   was  plunged  beneath 

old  Jordan's  wave 
Or  sprinkled  with  the  water-drops   when  God  His 

spirit  gave. 

It  seems  to  me  if  one  is   wrong  an'  t'other  one  is 

right, 
We'd  find  some  chapter  or  some  verse  to   give  a 

little  light. 
I  hardly  think  that  Jesus   Christ   would   failed   to 

mention  it 
If  He  had  known  that  one  was  wrong  an'  t'other  one 

was  fit. 

I  don't  believe  the  doctrine  that  I  hear  some  peo- 
ple preach, 

That  when  God  gave  us  all  our  souls,  He  fixed  the 
fate  of  each, — 

200 


FARMER  JOHWS  THEOLOGY. 

That  some  may  do  the  worst  they  can,  they'll  go  to 

heaven  straight, 
While  others,  though  they  do  their  best,   can't  get 

in  through  the  gate. 

I  don\  believe  the  man   who  prays  the  loudest  is 

the  best. 
Nor  he  who  wears  the  longest  face   is  better  than 

the  rest. 
I   think    the  man  who   brags   the   m'ost  about    his 

honest  ways, 
Is    jest    the  one  whose   deeds  won't  bear  a    scru- 

tinizin'  gaze. 

I  don't  believe  that  woman's  heart   is   'zactly  free 

from  guile 
Who  always  sees  the  darkest  side,  an'  never  thinks 

to  smile; 
I  don't  believe  an  angel  wears  a  frown  upon   its 

face, 
An'  frownin'  women,  up  in  heaven,  would  jest  be 

out  of  place 

I  don't  believe  it's  Christian-like  to  scorn  a  fallen 

one, 
Nor  tread  her  deeper  in  the  mud  for  some  misdeed 

she's  done; 
But  take  her  kindly  by  the  hand  an'  lead  her  from 

her  sin; — 
'Tis  better  than  to  conquer  worlds,   an  errin'  soul 

to  win. 

201 


FARMER  JOHN'S  THEOLOGY. 

I    b'lieve    the   best   theology    is    love    to    God    an' 

man, — 
To  do  for  both  in   ev'rything,   the    very    best    we 

can; 
An'  if  we  live  up  to  this  rule,  we'll  find,   when  (life 

is  o'er, 
We've  got  a  pass  to  let   us  in  through   heaven's 

golden  door. 


202 


FARMER  JOHN  ON  INFIDELITY. 


WHAT'S   that   you    say?     You    don't    believe 
there's  any  God  at  all? 
No  God  that  made  the  sun  an'  moon,  an'  all  things 

big  an'  small? 
Well,  that's  the  queerest  doctrine,  yet,  I  think  I've 

ever  heard ! 

That  must  be  what  the   preacher  calls   a  doctrine 
most  absurd! 

No  God  that  made  the  sun  an'  stars  an'  put  each 

in  its  place, 
An'    set  each    one   a  rollin'    in    its    lightin'-footed 

race? 
I  think,  somewhere,  the  bible  calls  a  man  like  that 

a  fool; 
It  seems  to  me  such  men  can't  have  the  senses  of 

a  mule. 

No  God?'  No  Christ?    No  heaven?     No  hell?    No 

soul  to  lose  or  save? 
No    angels    nor  no  great,    white  throne?    No    life 

beyond  the  grave? 
No  meetin'  of  the  dear,  loved  ones  who  went  on  just 

before? 
No    claspin'    hands    nor    greetin's    on    the    ever- 

bloomin1  shore? 

203 


/  .  /AM//:  A'  JOHN  ON  INFIDELITY. 

I   can't  believe  things  come  by  chance,— that  all 

just  happened  so; — 
That  there's  no  God  who  makes  the  trees  an'  grass 

an'  flowers  grow, 
An'  keeps  the  planets  rollin"  in  their  courses  'round 

the  sun, 
An'  day  an'  night  come   regular  just  as  they  first 

begun. 

I  can't  believe  this  world  is  all   that  we  shall  ever 

know; — 
I  can't  believe  the  grave's  the  end — that  life  ends 

here  below; — 
I  can't  believe  that  burnin'  hell   is  nothin1  but  a 

scare 
To  keep  men  decent  here  on  earth  through  fear  of 

goin'  there. 

I'd  rather  take  the  doctrine  that  was  taught  me  in 

my  youth; — 
When  father  talked  of  God  an'  Christ,   I  b'lieve  he 

told  the  truth. 
When  mother  used  to   kneel   by  me  an'   teach    me 

how  to  pray, 
I  know  I  never  shall  forget  the  words  she  used  to 

say. 

[  b'lieve  the  bible  is  the  guide  from  God  to  mortals 

given, 
That  points  out  plain  the  narrow  road   that  leads 

from  earth  to  heaven. 

204 


FARMER  JOHN  ON  INFIDELITY. 

I  b'lieve  that  unrepented  sin  He'll  punish  by  and 

by 
When  on  the  judgment  day  He'll  bid   the  nations 

all  draw  nigh. 

I  don't  care  if  this  whole  world   rise   upon  its   feet 

an'  tell 
That  there's  no  God,  no  Christ,  no  soul,  no  heaven 

nor  no  hell, 
And  though  a  thousand   Ingersolls  should  shout  it 

in  my  face, 
I     shouldn  t    budge    a    single     inch; — it    wouldn't 

change  the  case. 

I'll  let  the  skeptics  sneer  an'  laugh  an1  in  derision 

shout; 
Some  day,    perhaps  when   'tis   too   late,    the    truth 

they  will  find  out; 
But  I'll  go  on    believin'   in  the  bible,   heaven  an' 

hell, 
An'  try  to  end  up  right,  an'  see  if  they  come  out  as 

well. 


205 


FARMER  JOHN  TELLS  ABOUT  THE  NEW 
PREACHER. 

WELL,  Sary,  we've  got  our  new  preacher 
All  settled  as  slick  as  a  pin;— 
The  neighbors  turned  out  pooty  gin'rous, 

An'  soon  got  his  goods  all  moved  in. 
But  Sary,  you  needn't  say  nothin, ' 

But  I  think  they  are  terribly  poor; — 
Their  things  looked  so  awfully  common, — 
Not  better  than  ours  I'm  sure. 

An'  Sary,  I  b'lieve  we  shall  like  them, 

They  acted  so  friendly  an'  good; 
In  puttin'  up  stovepipes  an'  bedsteads, 

They  both  helped  us  all  that  they  could. 
An'  Sary,  you  mustn't  get  jealous 

If  I  brag  of  the  minister's  wife; 
But  she's  got  just  the  purtiest  of  faces 

That  ever  I've  seen  in  my  life. 

She  don't  look  much  more  than  a  baby 

Herself,  she's  so  teeny  an'  small; 
But  she  knows  how  to  work,  I  can  tell  you, 

An'  that  is  the  best  of  it  all. 
She  tried  to  look  smilin'  an'  happy 

An'  worked  herself  'most  out  of  breath, 
A  gittin'  us  men-folks  our  supper; 

I  know  she  was  tired  to  death. 

206 


FARMER  JOHN  AND  THE  NEW  PREACHER. 

I  tell  you  she  fixed  up  the  victuals 

So  ev'rything  tasted  just  right; 
I  always  thought  you  good  at  cookin', 

But  I  b'lieve  she  can  beat  you  a  mite. 
She  sat  there  so  smiliu'  an'  rosy, 

A  passin'  the  tea  an'  the  bread, 
An'  we  men-folks  a  eatin'  so  hearty, 

It  just  done  her  good,  so  she  said. 

Then  after  we'd  got  through  our  supper 

An'  was  talkin'  of  comin'  away, 
The  preacher  he  took  down  the  bible 

An'  read,  an'  then  knelt  down  to  pray. 
An'  Sary,  I  don't  know  that  ever 

I've  heard  in  my  life,  such  a  prayer; — 
It  came  from  the  heart  of  the  preacher, 

An'  touched  ev'ry  one  that  was  there. 

They  thanked  me  for  what  I  had  helped  them, 

An'  asked  me  so  much  about  you, 
An'  told  me  to  call  on  them  often 

An'  bring  you  along  with  me,  too. 
I  guess,  just  as  soon  as  they're  settled, 

We'll  hitch  up  old  Dolly  an'  Sam 
An'  drive  up  an'  make  'em  a  visit, 

An'  take  'em  some  beef  an'  some  ham. 

I  pity  these  Methodist  preachers, 

They  haint  got  no  home  of  their  own; 

I  think  we'd  all  like  it  much  better 
If  Conference  would  leave  them  alone. 

207 


/  .  \KMEK  JOHN  AND  THE  NEW  PKEACHEK. 

Just  as  soon  as  we  get  so  we  like  them 
An'  feel  so  we  want  them  to  stay, 

Their  two  or  three  years  is  expired, 
An'  Conference  sends  them  away. 

An'  Sary,  I  can't  help  but  pity 

The  Methodist  ministers'  wives; 
This  movin'  all  over  the  country, 

I  think  must  just  wear  out  their  lives. 
But  yet  they  'most  always  seem  happy 

An'  content  with  just  what  they  have  got; 
But  if  you  were  in  their  place,  Sary, 

You'd  grumble,  I  think,  at  your  lot. 

I  like  our  good  Methodist  doctrine, 

I  b'lieve  it's  the  best  of  them  all: 
But  I  wasn't  cut  out  for  a  preacher, — 

I'm  glad  that  I  haint  got  a  call. 
I'd  rather  work  hard  all  my  lifetime, 

An'  live  on  a  crust  an'  a  bone, 
Than  move  all  about  as  a  preacher, 

An'  not  have  a  home  of  my  own. 

But  I  s'pose  there's  a  home  in  the  future, 

Where  the  Methodist  preachers  will  go 
An'  live  through  the  ages  eternal, 

When  their  work  is  all  done  here  below. 
An'  I  s'pose  that  the  good  Lord  of  heaven, 

Rememberin'  her  troubles  in  life, 
Will  save  a  bright  home  there  in  glory, 

For  the  Methodist  minister's  wife. 

208 


FARMER  JOHN  TALKS  ABOUT 
CHURCHES. 


I'VE|been  to  sev'ral  churches,  an'  their  doctrine's 
'bout  the  same; 
'Bout  all  the  difference  I  can  see   is  only  in  their 

name; 
They  all  seem  to  be  steerin'  for  the  good,  old  place 

above, 

An'  seem  to  be   relyin'   on  God's  great,   forgivin' 
love. 


The  Methodists  an'  Lutherans,  the  Baptists  an'  the 

rest,— 
I   like   the  doctrines    of   them    all;    I    don't    know 

which  is  best; 

There's  very  little  difference  so  fur  as  I  can  see, — 
They  all  believe  in  God  an'  in  the  Holy  Trinity. 

They  all^believe  that  Christ  was  sent  to  save  poor, 

fallen  man 
By  makin'  free  to  ev'ry  one  salvation's  generous 

plan. 

209 


FARMER  JOHN  TALKS  ABOUT  CHURCHES, 

They  all  believe  that  ev'ry  man  from  all   his  sins 

must  flee 
If    he    will    get    a    place    in    heaven    through    all 

eternity. 

But  yet  they'll  sometimes  argue  an'  dispute  about 

their  creeds, 
'Bout   dippin'  or  'bout   sprinklin',   as  if  these  are 

savin'  deeds. 
Sometimes  they'll  quarrel  an'  get  mad  about  some 

small  church  law 
That  in  the  minds  of  thinkin'  men  don't  all  amount 

to  straw. 

They  all  seem  to  be  workin'  hard  the  same    good 

place  to  win, 
By  goin'  straight  upon  their  road  an'  steerin'   clear 

of  sin. 
I  b'lieve  that  some  from  ev'ry  church  will  find  that 

place  some  day, 
Though  some,  of  course,  will  falter  an'  fall  out  an' 

lose  their  way. 

If  all  the  churches  would  jine  hands  an'   do  the 

best  they  can 
To  make  this  old  world  better  an'  to  lift  up  fallen 

man, 
There'd    be  no    need  of  quarrelin'   over  forms  or 

small  church  laws, — 
Such  things,  when  balanced   'gainst  men's    souls, 

are  just  as  light  as  straws. 

210 


FAKMKK  JOHN  TALKS  ABOUT  CHURCHES. 

I  think,   when  we  all  come   to  die  an'  leave    this 

earthly  sphere, 
The  question  won't  be  asked  of  us  what  church  we 

'tended  here; 
But  if  our  souls  are  found  to  be  all   clean  from 

ev'ry  sin, 
Saint    Peter'll   open   heaven's   door  an'   tell  us   to 

step  in. 


211 


FARMER  JOHN'S  DISCOURSE  ON  HUMAN 
NATURE. 


I    TELL  you,  Sary,  there  is  lots  of  good  in  this 
world  yet, 
Though  some  folks  say  an  honest  man  is  hardly  to 

be  met; 
They    needn't   draw  their  faces  down  an'  look  so 

mighty  sad, 

For  men  are  not  all  rascals  yet,  an'  women  aint  all 
bad. 

They'll  tell  us  of  long  years  ago  when  this  old 
world  was  young, 

How  fast  the  good,  old  patriarchs  to  ev'ry  virtue 
clung. 

They'll  tell  us  how  they  kept  the  law  an'  wor- 
shiped all  day  long 

With  timbrel,  harp  an'  voice  an'  good,  old- 
fashioned  Hebrew  song. 

They'll    tell  us    how  old    Abraham    his   wondrous 

faith  displayed, 
When  he,   his  own,   his   only  son  upon   the  altar 

laid. 

212 


FARMER  JOHN  ON  HUMAN  NATURE. 

They'll  tell  us  of  the  wonders  wrought  by  Moses' 

magic  rod, 
How  Solomon,  the  wisest  man,  a  temple  built  for 

God. 

They'll  tell  us  of  the  good  they  done,  those  men  of 

long  ago, 
But  not  a  word  are  we  allowed  of  their  bad   deeds 

to  know; 
They  try  to  make  us  think  that  vice  an'  wickedness 

an'  sin 
Are  things  of  later  date  than   that;   but  they  have 

always  been. 

I    don't  believe  the  men   of  now  are    worse    than 

them  of  old; 
I    b'lieve    we've    got   some   'mongst  us  here    with 

hearts  as  true  as  gold. 
I  b'lieve  we've  folks  as  good  an'  true's  the   world 

has  ever  had, 
For  men  are  not  all  rascals  yet,  an'  women  aint  all 

bad. 

I  believe  that  human  natur'  is  the  same  as  in 
those  times 

When  David  strung  his  harp  an'  sang  his  sacred 
Hebrew  rhymes. 

I  b'lieve  there's  good  an'  bad  mixed  through  man- 
kind from  then  till  now;  — 

That  some  are  good  an'  some  are  bad,  of  course  all 
must  allow. 

213 


FARMER  JOHN  ON  HUMAN  NATURE. 

You  can't  tell  always,  by  the  looks,  what's  deep 

down  in  the  heart; — 
A  man  may  wear  a  smilin'  face  while  actin'   some 

bad  part. 
A  woman  sometimes  smiles  an'  pets  a  man   until 

he's  blind, 
But  yet  he  don't  know  nothin'  of  the  workin's  of 

her  mind. 

There's  Mary  Elaine,  the  wildest  girl  'most  ever  I 

have  seen; 
But  yet  I  don't  believe  that  girl  would  do  a  thing 

that's  mean; 
She'll  talk  an'  joke  an'  laugh  an'  romp,  an'  make 

some  people  mad, 
But  yet  I  never  knew  a  thing  about  the  girl  that's 

bad. 

She's  got  a  heart,  an'  showed  it  too  when  old  Nan 

Brown  was  sick; — 
Old  Nan  was  poor,    an'   so  of  course  her  friends 

wa'n't  over  thick; 
But  Mary  went  an'  stayed  with  her  an'  nursed  her 

a  long  spell 
Until  she  brought  her  'round  again,  alive  an'  smart 

an'  well. 

There's  old  Bill   Jones — old    Miser   Bill,— you've 

heard  them  tell  of  him: 
He's  got  a  pile  of  money,    though   he  lives   most 

awful  slim, 

214 


FARMER  JOHN  ON  HUMAN  NATURE. 

You'd  hardly  think  that  such  a  man  as  he  has  got  a 

heart, 
But,  Sary,  old  Bill  acted  once  the  good  Samaritan's 

part. 

You  know,   last  winter,    old   black  Joe  was  taken 

very  sick;— 
The  doctors  said  it  was  smallpox!       The  neighbors 

scattered  quick. 
Joe   had  no  friends  to   'tend    on    him;    all    stayed 

away  in  fear; 
We  all  were  scared  to  death  almost,  an'  didn't  dare 

go  near. 

Then  old  Bill  Jones  came  there  to  Joe's  an'  spoke 

up  like  a  man: — 
"I  don't  know  much  'bout  sick  folks,   but   I'll   do 

the  best  I  can." 
For  days  an'  weeks,  'thout  any  pay,   he  stayed  by 

old  Joe's  side; 
An'  hadn't  it  a  been  for  him,  old  Joe  would  surely 

died. 

There's   Jennie    Gray,    the    merchant's    wife, — she 

holds  her  head  so  high 
An'  looks  so  scornful-like  an'    proud  when   she   is 

walkin'  by; 
No  one  would  think  she  has  a  heart  a  beatin'  in 

her  breast; 
But,  Sary,  she  has  got  a  soul  as  noble  as  the   best. 

215 


FARMER  JOHN  ON  HUMAN  NATURE. 

When   Widder  Sanford's  boy  was  sick:— ye  know 

the  widder's  poor, 
An'  death  was  loudly   knockin'   at  her  poor,    old 

shanty  door, 
Then  Jennie  Gray  went  quickly  there  just  like  an 

angel  bright, 
An'  watched  by  Willie  Sanford's  bed  from  eve  till 

mornin'  light. 

An'  then,  at  last  when  Willie  died,  a  shroud  the 
lady  brought; — 

A  costly  casket  came  there  too,  which  Jennie's 
money  bought. 

She  helped  the  widder  through  the  whole,  just  like 
a  sister  would; 

I  tell  ye,  Sary,  in  such  hearts  there  must  be  some- 
thing good. 

There's  old  John  Green; — oldswearin'  John; — I've 

often  heard  them  tell 
There's  no   salvation   for  that  man.     He'll   surely 

go  to  hell; 
But,  Sary,  I  have  seen  old  John  do   things  would 

make  you  stare! 
Though    I    don't    know   he   ever    prayed    or   ever 

thought  of  prayer. 

When  old  Miss  Gage, — her  husband's  blind, — was 

out  of  wood  last  week, 
Old  swearin'  John  he  found  it  out  but  didn't  never 

speak 

216 


FARMER  JOHN  ON  HUMAN  NATURE. 

To  any  neighbor  how  it  was,  but  loaded  up  a  load, 
All  his  big   team  could  ever  draw  up  that   steep, 
slippery  road. 

An'   when   the  woman   offered   thanks   to   him   for 

what  he'd  done, 
He  swore  his  wood  wa'n't  worth   her  thanks;  he 

surely  wanted  none. 
I  stood  close  by  where  I  could  see  his  eye,  an'  it 

shone  bright; 
I    know  he  felt,   down  in  his   heart,    that  he    was 

doin'  right. 

When  old  Joe  Simmons  broke  his  leg,   his  fam'ly 

was  so  poor 
'Most    ev'rybody    thought    that    they'd    go   to   the 

poorhpuse  sure; 
Old  swearin'  John  he  swore  a  streak,    an'  said   it 

shouldn't  be! 
He'd   just   take  Joe   an'  all   his  folks   in  his    own 

family! 

You  know  last  summer,  when  I   fell  an'  broke  my 

good,  right  arm, 
An'  none  but  you  to  do  the  chores  an'  care  for  the 

old  farm; 
Our  neighbors,  ev'ry  one  turned  out  in  forces  good 

an'  strong, 
An'   wouldn't   take    a  single  cent,   but  rushed  the 

work  along. 

217 


FARMER  JOHN  ON  HUMAN  NA  TURE. 

e  1  you,  Sary,  there's  some  good  in  ev'rybody's 

heart; 
It  only  takes  the  'casion  to  give  the  good   deed  a 

start. 
Some    folks    are  always   findin'    fault  about   their 

neighborhood, 
When,  if  they'd  only  do  what's   fair,   they'd    find 

their  neighbors  good. 

We've  lived  nigh  twenty  years  or  more  right  here 

in  this  same  place; 
We've    never    brought   a    scowl    of    hate    on  any 

neighbor's  face; — 
They've  always  treated  us  first-rate, — the  children, 

you  an'  me, 
An'  all's  gone  off  as  pleasant  as  we  could  wish  to 

see. 

Now  folks  may  growl  an'  fret  an'  swear,  an'  say  the 

world  aint  right; 
We  know  there's  good  in   ev'ry  heart,    something 

will  bring  to  light. 
They  needn't  draw  their  faces  down  an'  look  so 

mighty  sad, 
For  men  are  not  all  rascals  yet,  an'  women  aint  all 

bad. 


218 


FARMER  JOHN'S  PHILOSOPHY. 


7-r\ELL,  Sary,   we  are  gettin'   old.       It's  over 
VAX  sixty  years 

Since  first  we  ope'd  our  eyes  on  what  some  call  this 

vale  of  tears. 

We've  had  our  ups  an'  downs  in   life   like   every- 
body's had; 

We've  had  a  big  share  of  the  good,  with  something 
of  the  bad. 

We've  pulled  together  in  the  work,   each  doin'  of 

our  best 
Until    we've  got   enough   ahead  we  can  afford   to 

rest. 
We  needn't  fear  the  poorhouse  now,  nor  that  we'll 

die  in  debt; — 
The  old  farm  will   support  us   both,   so  we've  no 

cause  to  fret. 

But,  Sary,  I  have  1'arned  some  things  in  this  long 

life  of  mine; 
I've  1'arned  it  never  pays  to  fret  nor  growl  nor  snarl 

nor  whine. 
If  things  don't  seem  to  move  along  just  as  we'd  like 

them  to, 
The  best  way  is  to  pitch  right  in  an'  push  or  drag 

them  through. 

219 


FARMER  JOMN'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

It  never  pays  when  trouble  comes,   to  give  up  in 

despair, 
An'  think  our  burden  is  too  great  for  mortal  frame 

to  bear. 
The    best  way   is   to  stand  up  straight   an'   never 

swerve  a  hair; 
The  trouble   won't   seem  half  so   great  if  we   but 

meet  it  square. 

Some    folks  are  always   worryin'    'bout  something 

that's  to  come. 
If  they  haint  any  trouble,  they're  expect  in'  to  have 

some. 
If  they'd  just  spend  their  moments  in  enjpyin'  what 

they've  got, 
They'd  get  on  better  through  the  world,   an'  have  a 

happier  lot. 

Dark  clouds  may  loom  above  us  an'  the  thunder 

bolts  may  crash, 
An'    ev'rything     seem    goin'    to     end    in     eternal 

smash; 
But  right  above  the  threatenin'  clouds,   though  we 

can't  see  his  light, 
The  sun,  in  all  his  splendor,   is  a  shinin'  calm  an' 

bright. 

The  man  who  tries  his  level  best  to  do  what   good 

he  can 
To  make  his  neighbors  happier,   by  helpin'  ev'ry 

man, 

221 


FARMER  JOHWS  PHILOSOPHY. 

Is  buildin'  up  a  monument  more  lastin'  than  the 

stone, 
To  keep  his  name  in  memory  when  he  is  dead  an' 

gone. 

The    longest   life  is   much  too   short  to    waste    a 

single  day, 
An'  moments  are  too  precious  to  be  lost  or  thrown 

away; 
Each  day  should  be  the  record  of  some  good  that 

we  have  done, 
Some  kind  word  spoken,  or  some  act  that's  helped 

a  needy  one. 

Kind  words  don't  cost  us  anything,   but  yet  their 

worth  is  great; 
They've  helped  to  save  a  fallen  one,  an'  stopped  a 

fearful  fate; 
They've  never  made  an  enemy,  nor  caused  a  tear 

to  flow, 
But  often  have  they  helped  to  cheer  a  heart  bowed 

down  with  woe. 

Harsh  words  have  never  made  a  friend   nor  wiped 

away  a  tear; 
They  never  bring  us  any  good,  but  sometimes  cost 

us  dear. 
The  cord   of  love  that  binds  two  hearts   together 

may  be  broken, 
An'  two  lives  be  asunder  cast  by  one  word  harshly 

spoken 

222 


FARMER  JOHX\S  PHILOSOPHY. 

There's  much  of  sorrow  in  this  world  might  just  as 

well  be  joy 
If  we,    instead   of  grumblin',   would  our   precious 

time  employ 
In  bein'  thankful  that  Our  woes  an'  troubles  aint 

no  worse, 
An'  make  that  thing  ablessin'  that  at  first  appeared 

a  curse. 

The  selfish  man  don't  never  know  the  happiness 

he  might, 
If  he  would  just  consider  that  some  other  may  be 

right, 
An'  give  his  neighbors  credit  for  a  little  common 

sense; 
The  practice  of  unselfish  acts  would  more  than  pay 

expense. 

This  talkin'  'bout  our  neighbors  an'  condemin'  of 

their  acts 
When  all  we  know  is   guess-work,   an'  nothin'    of 

the  facts, 
Is  just  about  the  meanest  thing  that  we  can  find  to 

do; 
It    makes   a    pile    of    trouble,    an'    makes   us    feel 

sneakin '  too. 

If  we  can't  say  a  word  of  good  about  some  one  we 

know, 
We'd  better  keep  our  mouths  tight  shut  an'   leave 

the  matter  so. 

223 


FAKMER  JOHN'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

I  b'lieve  that  man  has  never  lived  who  hadn't  one 
good  trait, 

Which,  if  we  only  knew  the  fact,  we  would  appre- 
ciate. 

I  b'lieve,  when  God  created  us,  it  was  His  right- 
eous plan 

We  should  enjoy  what's  given  us  the  very  best  we 
can; 

An'  while  we  thus  are  happy,  we  must  keep  this 
thing  in  view, 

To  do  our  very  best  to  make  our  neighbors  happy 
too. 


224 


AUNT  KEZIAH  ENTERTAINS  THE  NEW 
PREACHER. 


GOOD    mornin',     Elder!     How  Me  do?      I'm 
r'aley  glad  you've  come. 
Walk  in  an'  take  the  rockin'-cheer  an'  make  yer- 

self  to  hum. 
I    s'pose  you're  gettin'  pooty  well   acquainted   in 

this  place, 

An'  find  there's    lots  of   people   here  that   need  a 
work  of  grace. 

"I've  been  expectin'  you'd  drop   in — been   lookin' 

more'n  a  week; 
I  heerd  ye  preach  last  Sunday,  an'    I  like  the  way 

ye  speak. 
It  done  me  good  to  hear  ye  talk  'bout  fashions  an' 

pretense; — 
I    think    that    preachin'    such     as    that,    is    good, 

straight,  common  sense. 

"You'll  find  there's  lots   of  people  here  aint  what 

they  ort  to  be; 
There's  some  that  hold  their  heads  so  high  they'll 

hardly  look  at  me; 

225 


AUNT  KEZIAH  AND  THE  NEW  PREACHER. 

But  then,  of  course,  I  feel  myself  about  as  good  as 

they; 
If  they'll  compare  their  acts  with  mine,   I'll  do  it 

any  day. 

"I  don't  believe  in  talkin'  'bout  my  neighbors,  bad 

or  good, 
But    I    could    tell    considerable    about    them    if    I 

would. 
They're  jest  about  the  meanest  lot   that  you  have 

ever  see, 
Except  a  few;  I  hope  you'll  find  that  'mong   that 

few  is  me. 

"I  hear  your  poor,   dear  wife  is  dead;    I  know  ye 

feel  the  loss,  — 
An'  two  small   children  on  yer  hands,  it  must  be 

quite  a  cross. 
I  know  jest   how  to  sympathize;  /  am  a   widder, 

too, 
An'  when  I  feel  my  loneliness,  I  know  how  'tis  with 

you. 

"1  know  perhaps  it  aint  my  place  to  give  ye  much 

advice, 
But  we  have  got  some   women    here   who    think 

they're  awful  nice, — 
A  few  old  maids — you'll  find  'em  out — who're  dyin' 

for  a  man, 
With  half  a  dozen  widders,  too,  who'll  catch  you 

if  they  can. 

226 


AUNT  KEZIAH  AND  THE  NEW  PREACHER. 

''I'd  hate  to  see  your  little  ones  misused  by  some  I 

know; — 
'Twould  almost  break  my  very  heart  if  it  should 

turn  out  so. 
I  s'pose  of  course  you'll  marry;  it's  but  nat'ral  that 

ye  should; 
Them  children  want  a  mother's  care, — some  one 

that's  kind  an'  good. 

"Last  Sunday  when  I  sat  in  church,  I  seen  'em 
sittin'  there, 

An'  thinks  I  to  myself,  how  much  they  need  a 
mother's  care! 

I  couldn't  keep  my  feelin's  back;  I  felt  the  tear- 
drops start; 

I  wanted  so  to  take  'em  up  an'  clasp  em'  to  my 
heart. 

"I    always    thought    that    I   was    meant    to    be    a 

preacher's  wife; — 
That    helpin'    on    the    gospel    work    was   jest    my 

sphere  in  life, 
An'  trainin'  children's  youthful  minds  an'   leadin' 

'em  aright 

So  that  they'd  grow  up  good  an'  smart,  would  jest 
be  my  delight. 

"I've  often   said    I'd    never   wed    since    Ebenezer 

died, 
Though  I  might  had  a  dozen  men  or  more  if  I  had 

tried; 

227 


AUNT  KEZIAH  AND  THE  NEW  PREACHER. 

But  then  I've  knowed  the  best  of  folks  to  some- 
times change  {heir  mind, 

An'  I  might  do  the  same,  perhaps,  if  some  good 
cause  I'd  find. 

"But,  Elder,  please  don't  say  a  word   'bout  what 

we've  talked  to-day; 
If  certain  folks  should  find  it  out,  they'd  have  a  lot 

to  say. 
There's  some  folks  always   watchin'   'round  to  see 

how  others  walk, 
An'  pick  up  everything  they  can  find  out  to  make  a 

talk. 

What,  Elder,  must  ye  go  so  soon?      I   r'aley  wish 

ye'd  stay; 
We've    got  acquainted   now,  I  wish  ye'd    drop    in 

ev'ry  day, 
An'  bring  the    children    up   sometimes;   of  course 

'twill  be  all  right, 
An'  you  can  stop  an'  get  'em  here  when  you  go 

home  at  night. 

"I  feel  so  for  them  little  ones;  they  need  a  mother's 

care, 
An',  Elder,  you  need  some  one  too  your  joys  an' 

griefs  to  share; 
I  know  of  one  would  fill  the  place,  but  'taint  for  me 

to  say. 
What,  Elder!     Must  ye  go   so  soon?    Well,  come 

again.    Good-day." 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    AT    FARMER    JOHN'S. 


WELL,    Sary,    to-morrow    is    Christmas;    the 
children  are  all  tucked  in  bed 
An*  sleepin  like  sweet  little  angels.    God's  blessin' 

on  each  curly  head. 
I  s'pose  they  are  dreamin'   of   presents   old   Santa 

Claus  mebbe  will  bring; 

I  see  they've  all  hung  up  their  stockin's  as  if  they 
expected  something. 

I  wish  we'd  a  big  pile  of  money,  we'd  buy  some- 
thing nice  for  the  boys, 

Would  please  them  a  monstrous  sight  better  than 
cheap  little  candies  an'  toys; 

An'  we'd  buy  for  our  sweet  little  Jennie,  the  girl 
that  looks  so  much  like  you, — 

An'  organ,— perhaps  a  pianner;  'twould  be  nice, 
an'  I  think  please  her  too. 

But  we're  farmers,  an'  money  aint  plenty;  we  haint 

even  pennies  to  spare, 
But  the  children,    the   dear    little  creatures,   shall 

each  of  them  have  their  full  share. 

229 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  FARMER  JOHN'S. 

To-day  when  I  went  to  the  village,   I  seen  such  a 

lot  that  was  nice, — 
The  stores  were  chuck  full  of   presents  you  could 

buy  at  almost  any  price. 

My  old  head  began  to  get  bothered  a  thinkin'  of 
what  I  should  git 

To  be  useful  an '  nice  for  the  children ;  but  the  store- 
keeper he  settled  it; 

So  I  told  him  to  pick  out  the  presents,  such  things 
as  he  thought  would  be  good, 

Not  git  up  too  steep  on  the  prices,  an'  I'd  pay  the 
bill  if  I  could. 

So  he  picked  out  a  nice  suit  of  clothin'  to  .give  to 

each  one  of  the  boys, 
An'  he  said  that  how  bein'   'twas   Christmas,    he'd 

throw  in  a  couple  of  toys. 
Then   he  picked  out   a  dress   for  our  Jennie,   the 

nicest  he  had  in  the  store, 
I  got  it  for  just  what  it  cost  him;  he   said  that  he 

wanted  no  more. 
Then  he  throwed  in  a  doll  too,   for  Jennie;   he  said 

'twas  his  present  for  her, — 
All  dressed  up  in  silk  an'  in  satin  with  a  cloak   of 

the  finest  of  fur. 

An'  then,  when  the  bill  was  all  settled,  it  took  ev'ry 

cent  that  I  had, 
So  I  couldn't  buy  you  any  present;  but  I  knew  that 

you  wouldn't  feel  bad, 

230 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  FARMER  JOHN'S. 

For  both  of  us  love  our  dear  children;  we'll  do  all 

for  them  that  we  can, 
So  when  we  grow  old  an'  dependent  they'll  act  on 

the  same  generous  plan. 

Now,   Sary,   we'll  fill   up   the  stockin's;   the   dear, 

little  things  are  so  small, 
We'll  have  to  put  some  on  the  table,  for  they  won't 

begin  to  hold  all; 
An'  when  they  git  up  in  the  mornin'  I  guess  they 

will  meet  a  surprise! 
I  think  I  can  see  the  joy  dancin'  an'   sparklin'   in 

their  eager  eyes. 

'Twill  pay  us  for  all  that  it  cost  us,  to  see  just  how 

happy  they'll  be, 
An'  hear  them  a  shoutin'  an'  laughin'  an'  jumpin'  in 

innocent  glee. 
'Taint  much  we  can  do  for  our  offspring  'ceptgittin' 

'em  something  to  eat 
An'  findin'  them  comfortable  clothin',  though'  taint 

very  stylish  an'  neat. 

But  we  think  just  as  much  of  'em^   Sary,    as  if  we 

had  thousands  in  gold 
An'  diamonds,  an'  jewelry  an'  finery  much   more 

than  our  cottage  could  hold. 
Now  we've  got  ev'rything  fixed  up  nicely,    I  guess 

we'll  be  gittin'  to  bed; 
My  old  eyes  begin  to  feel  drowsy;  I'm  such  a  con- 

sarned  sleepy-head. 

231 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  FARMER  JOHWS. 

An'  we'll  pray  that  the   dear  little   children  God 

sent  us  to  brighten  our  home, 
May  live  to  take  care  of  us,   Sary,   when   the  time 

of  our  old  age  shall  come. 
Then  we  an'  they'll  have  to   change  places;   we'll 

be  the  dependent  ones  then, 
When    Jennie  shall  grow    to    a    woman    an'    our 

boys  shall  be  grown  to  be  men. 


232 


FARMER  JOHN  DETERMINES  TO  HAVE  A 
LAWSUIT. 


AORNIN',    Mr.   Lawyer!  No,(]thankee,    can't 
sit  down; 
I   thought   I'd    call  an'  see  ye  to-day,    as   I'm    in 

town. 
I've  got  a  leetle   business   that   is  suthin'   new  to 

me: — 
Got  into  a  jangle  with  another  man,  ye  see. 

"I  don't  believe  in  lawin'  not  as  a  gineral  thing; 
I'm  nigh  on  seventy-five  year  old;   I'll  be  that  in 

the  spring, 
An'  never  had  a  lawsuit  yet;   but  now  it's   got  to 

be. 
I'm  bound  to  have  my  rights,    I   am;   no   man  can 

tread  on  me. 

"What  is't  about!  Well,  wait  a  bit;  I'll  tell  ye  all 

the  truth: 
Tom  Jackson  is   my  brother-in-law, — married   my 

sister  Ruth, 
An'    when   my   good  'old   father    died    'bout    forty 

years  ago, 
He  left  the  farm  an'  all  he  had  to  me  an'    Ruth,  ye 

know. 

233 


FARMER  JOHN  WILL  HAVE  A  LAWSUIT. 

"I  lived  to  hum  when  father  died,  an'  run  the  farm 

alone, 
An'  Ruth  an'  Tom   lived   near  us   in   a  cottage   of 

their  own; 
But   when  they   found   the  farm  was    willed    even 

'twixt  Ruth  an'  me, 
They  sold  their  house  an'  moved  with  us,  all  in  one 

family. 

"It  went  on  pooty  well  at  first;  then  children  came 

around. 
Until    at    length    the    house    was  gittin'    'most    to 

small,  we  found; 
Then  we  divided  up  the  farm;  'twas  big  enough  for 

two, 
An'   I  kept  the  old   buildin's,    while  Tom  he  built 

up  new. 

"We  got   a  smart  surveyor  chap,  made  a  dividin' 

line 
So  Tom  would  know  which  part  was   his   an'    I'd 

know  which  was  mine. 
We  built  the  fence  right  on   the  line  jest  where  it 

ort  to  be, 
An'  ev'rything  was  settled  right  to  suit  both  Tom 

an'  me. 

"We  lived  along  as  pleasant  as  two  neighbors  ever 

could, 
An'  each  one  tried  his   very   best   to  do   the   other 

good. 

235 


FARMER  JOHN  WILL  HA  VE  A  LA  WSUIT. 

Ruth  used  to  come  to  our  house,  help  Sary  do  her 

work, 
An'  Sary'd  do  the  same  for  her;   for  Sary  aint   no 

shirk. 

"It  went  on  so  for  twenty  years,  till  one  day  last 

July, 

My   cattle   broke  the   line  fence  down  an'  got  in 

Thomas's  rye; 
I  s'pose  they  did  destroy  it  some, — I   know  it  was 

too  bad, 
An'  when  Tom  found  it  out  of  course  it  made   him 

tearin'  mad. 

"He  came  straight  up  to  our   house,   he  did,   that 

very  night, 
An'  called  me  the  wust  names  he  could,  an'   said  I 

dassent  fight; 
Then  I  got  mad   an'  swore  at   Tom  an'   told  him 

that  he  lied, 
An'  Sary  tried  to  make   me  hush  an'   couldn't,   so 

she  cried. 

"It  wasn't  but  a  week  or  so  'fore  Tom's  whole  flock 
o'  sheep 

Broke  over  in  my   buckwheat  patch  while  I  was 
fast  asleep; 

They  et  it  off  an'  trod  it  in  till  they'd  destroyed   it 
all, 

So  the  whole  crop  wa'n't  worth  as  much  as  stub- 
ble, in  the  fall. 
236 


FARMER  JOHN  WILL  HA  VE  A  LA  WSUIT. 

"Of  course   I  went  straight  down  to   Tom's,    an' 

then  we  had  a  row, 
An'  Tom  haint  spoke  a  pleasant  word  to  me  from 

then  till  now, 
An'  Ruth  don't  come  to  our  house   to   help   us  as 

before, 
An'  I  have  ordered  Sary  that  she   shan't   go   there 

no  more. 

"So  matters  have  been  goin'  on  like  this,  from  bad 

to  worse, 
An'  ev'ry  time  we  meet  we  only  quarrel,  swear  an' 

curse. 
Tom  says  he'll  shoot  my  cows  next  time  they  break 

into  his  lot, 
An'  if  he  does,    I'll  shoot  his   sheep  an'   him   too, 

like  as  not. 

"He's  turned  the  stream  that  used  to  give  me  water 

for  my  stock, 

So  now  my  hillside  pastur'  is  as  dry   as   any   rock. 
He's  cut  down  hemlocks  in  the   woods,    that  stood 

right  on  the  line; 
He  knows  that  they  aint  his'n  any  more  than  they 

are  mine. 

"He  tries  to  hurt  me  all  he  can  in  ev'ry  kind  of  way. 
He's  killed  'most  all  the  hens  I  had,  an'  not  a  cent 
he'll  pay. 

237 


FARMER  JOHN  WILL  HA  VE  A  LA  WSUIT. 

He  said  they  dug  up  all  his  corn  an'   sp'iled  his 

garden  too; 
He  knows  it's  all  a  blasted  lie,  an'  not  a  word   is 

true! 

"Of  course  I'll  sue.     That's  what  I  come  to  talk  to 

ye  about! 
I'll  slap  the  papers  onto  him  if  you'll  just  make 

'em  out! 
I'll  make  him  jest  the  sorriest  man  that  you  have 

ever  see! 
He  waked  up  the  wrong  passenger  when  he  pitched 

into  me! 

"I'll  sarve  the  papers  on  him  sure,  this  very  after- 
noon! 

Since  Tom  an'  I  have  got  to  fight,  it  can't  begin 
too  soon! 

An'  when  he  once  gits  through  with  me  he'll  be  a 
poorer  man! 

I'll  make  his  family  beggars,  sir!  I'll  do  it  if  I 
can! 

"Well,  now  you've  got  the  papers  fixed,    I    guess 

I'll  say  good-day; 
I'll  go  an'  get  my   team  an'   be  a  joggin'  on   my 

way. 
1  can't  help  laughin'  when  I  think  how  Tom  will 

cuss  an'  swear; 
'Twill  be  worth  more  than  any  show!    I   wish    ye 

could  be  there. 

238 


FARMER  JOHN  WILL  HA  VE  A  LA  WSUIT. 

"But  yet  I  kinder  pity  him;  an'  then,   to  tell  the 

truth, 
I  can't  help  feelin'  sorry  for  my   poor,    old  sister 

Ruth. 
But  dang  it!    They  had  orter  thought  before  they 

pitched  on  me; 
They've  waked  up  the  wrong  passenger,  an'  that's 

jest  what  they'll  see!" 


239 


FARMER  JOHN'S  LAWSUIT  IS  SETTLED. 


aOOD  mornin',  Mr.  Lawyer;  well,  here  I   am 
ag'in. 
I  happened  here  in  town  to-day,  an'  thought  I'd 

jest  drop  in. 
I  brought  yer  papers  back  to  ye;  don't  need    'em 

now,  ye  see, 

For  ev'rything  is  settled  up  'twixt  brother  Tom  an' 
me. 

"Last  night  when  I  went  hum  from  here  anj  druv 

up  to  the  door, 

I  seen  a  sight  I  hadn't  seen  in  many  years  before! 
There  sat  Tom  an'  sister   Ruth    a  talkin1  to   my 

wife, 
An'    lookin'   jest   as   happy  'sif  there   wasn't   any 

strife! 

"You  bet  it  did  surprise  me  some.     I  hardly  dared 

go  in. 
I  thought  about  these  papers  here  an'  felt  as  mean 

as  sin 
To   think    of   what    I'd   been  about  an'   Tom   not 

knowin'  it! 
I  tell  ye  'twan't  no  easy  job,  an'  rather  tried  my 

grit.  • 

240 


FARMER  JOHN'S  LAWSUIT  IS  SETTLED. 

"But  Tom  he  met  me  at  the  door  an'  says,   'How 

are  ye,  John? 
An'  Ruth  an'  Sary  stood  close  by  a  lookin'  smilin' 

on. 
I   looked    at    Tom    an'    then    at    Ruth    an'    kinder 

stammered  some, 
An'  said,  'I'm  glad  to  see  ye  both.    I'm  r'aley  glad 

you've  come.' 

-  "An'  then  we  got  to  talkin'   as  we  used   to  years 

ago, 
An'  laughin'   'bout   the   scrapes   we   had   when   we 

were  boys,  ye  know; 
An'  Ruth  an'  Sary  both  sot  there  as  nappy's  they 

could  be, 
Both   busy  with   their  knittin'   work  an'  watchin' 

Tom  an'  me. 

"Bimeby  Tom  turns  an'  says  to  me,  'I  thought  I'd 

come  to-night 
An'  pay  ye  for  them  hens  I  shot,  an'   try  to  make 

things  right. 
I  know  I  haint  done  as  I  ought,  haint  acted  like  a 

man, 
But  if  you'll  tell  me  what  is   right,    I    pay  ye  if  I 

can. 

"  'We  haint  lived  as  two  brothers  should  for  many 

a  long,  sad  year. 
The  troubles   we   have    had    has    cost    poor    Ruth 

there,  many  a  tear; 

241 


FARMER  JOHN'S  LAWSUIT  IS  SETTLED. 

We're  both  a  gittin'  'long  in  years, — haint  many 

more  of  life, 
An'  them,  I  think,  we'd  ruther  spend  in  friendship 

than  in  strife.' 

"I  couldn't  help  but  think  about  the  paper  that  I'd 

got, 
An'  wish  I'd  never  had  it  drawed;  for,  sir,  I  tell  ye 

what! 
It  made   me  feel   as  mean    as    dirt — a   good    deal- 

meaner  too, 
But  helped  me  to  make  up  my  mind   jest  what  I'd 

orter  do. 

"I  said  to  Tom:    'We've  both  been  fools  for  many 

a  sorry  year, 

I  didn't  see  it  so  before,  but  now  I  see  it  clear. 
You  talk  'bout  payin'  for  them  hens.     Guess  1  am 

in  your  debt. 
That  rye  of  yourn  my  cows  destroyed, — that  haint 

been  settled  yet.' 

"An"  then  we  argyed  quite  a  spell, — Tom  claimin' 

he  owed  me, 
While  7  claimed  /  was  owin'  him  as  near  as  /  could 

see; 
An'  neither  one  would  take  a  cent  from  t'other  one, 

of  course, 
An'  so  we  kept  a  talkin'  on   till  both  of  us   was 

hoarse. 

242 


FARMER  JOHN'S  LA  WSUIT  IS  SETTLED. 

"Then   Ruth  an'   Sary    both    spoke    up    an'    said: 

'Leave  it  to  us, 
We'll  settle  all  this  matter  up  so  there  won't  be  no 

fuss; 
Both  promise  you'll  be  fools  no  more,  an'  that  will 

make  it  square!' 
Tom   looked   at   me  an'   I  at  him  an    'greed    that 

would  be  fair. 

"We  both  shook  hands  an'  both  agreed  that  we'd 

be  fools  no  more, 
But  both  live   as  we  used  to  do   in   happy  years 

before; 
An'  so  I've   brought  the  papers  back.     Just  burn 

'em  if  ye  will, 
An'  tell  me  what  I  owe  ye,  sir,   an'  I   will  pay  the 

bill. 

"What!    Aint  no  bill?    Well,  that  is  strange!    I'd 

r'aley  like  to  pay, 
But  if  ye  won't   take  anything,   a  week  from  jest 

this  day 
Is  Christmas,  an'  if  you'll  come  up  an'  see   me  on 

the  farm, 
We'll  give  you  one  good  dinner  that  will  make  yer 

heart  grow  warm. 

"Be  sure  an'  bring  yer  wife  along  so  she  can  have 

a  share; 
An'  you'll  meet  Tom  an'  sister  Ruth,  for  they  will 

both  be  there. 

243 


FARMER  JOHN'S  LAWSUIT  IS  SETTLED. 

We're  common,   but  we'll  treat  ye  both   the  very 

best  we  can, 
An'  you'll  find  Tom  a  grand  old  chap;   there  aint 

no  better  man." 


244 


THE  LAST  PAYMENT  IS  MADE. 


ELL,  Sary,  the  mortgage  is  cancelled.     The 

old  farm  is  now  all  our  own. 
I  made  the  last  payment   this  mornin'  an'   settled 

with  old  Squire  Stone. 
He  said  that  he'd  ruther  not  take   it,    he'd  ruther 

'twould  run  a  year  more, 
He'd  ruther  I'd  just  pay  the   int'rest,   an'   let  the 

claim  stand  as  before. 

"He  thought   that   I   didn't   remember  how    'twas 

but  a  few  years  ago, — 
That  year  when  the  frost  killed  our  corn  crop   an' 

our  wheat  was  choked  out  by  the  snow; 
He  thought  that  I  didn't  remember  he  wanted  to 

close  on  us  then 
An'  get  the  old   farm  in  his  clutches;  he'd  like  to 

have  "that  chance  again. 

"We've  worked  many  long  years  together  to  git  the 

old  farm  out  of  debt; 
Sometimes  we'd  git  almost  discouraged,   an'   then 

we'd  worry  an'  fret; 
Sometimes    ev'rything    seemed     ag'in    us, — crops 

killed  by  the  wind  or  the  hail, 
An'  neighbors  would  shake  their  heads   sadly  an' 

say  that  we  surely  must  fail. 

245 


THE  LAST  PAYMENT  IS  MADE. 

"I'll    never  forget  that   bright  mornin'  I  brought 

you  out  here  as  my  wife; — 
'Twas  jest  the  day  after  our  weddin, — the  happiest 

day  of  my  life. 
We  stood  in  the  door  both   together,  an'   looked 

around  over  the  farm, 
An'  life  seemed  so  bright  in  the  future; — we  thought 

'twould  be  always  a  charm. 

"We  didn't    care    much    for    the    mortgage ; — that 

didn't  give  us  any  fears; 
We  thought  we  could  h'ist  off  that  burden  in  just 

about  four  or  five  years. 
Ev'rything  looked  so  rosy  before  us, —  life  seemed 

to  have  only  one  side, 
An'  that  was  all  brightness  an'  sunshine,  no  shadow 

of  trouble  could  hide. 

"But  years  kept  a  comin'  an'  goin',  an'  though  we 

worked  hard  ev'ry  day, 
We  found  with  our  scrimpin'  an'  savin'  'twas  little 

enough  we  could  pay 
When  the  time  came  around  for  the  payment;  yet 

every  dollar  helped  some, 
But  often  we  felt  kind  of  trembly  when  the  day  for 

the  payment  should  come. 

"We  never  were  anxious   for  riches — for  piles  of 

the  glitterin'  gold, 

The  most  that  we   wanted  was  somethin'  laid   by 
when  we  got  to  be  old; 
246 


THE  LAST  PAYMENT  IS  MADE. 

An'  we  wanted  to  leave  for  our  children,  the  farm 
free  an'  clear  from  all  debt; 

An',  Sary,  the  thing  is  accomplished,  though  we 
won't  give  it  up  to  'em  yet. 

"The  cows  an'  the  pigs  an'  the  chickens,  they  seem 

to  rejoice  with  us  too; — 
The  meadows  look  greener  an'  fresher,  the  flowers 

look  gayer  in  hue; — 
The  brook  runnin'  down   from   the  hillside  seems 

singin'  a  silvery  charm, 
An'  ev'rything  seems  to  beshoutin',  'The  mortgage 

is  off  of  the  farm  I' 

"Yes,   Sary,    the  mortgage  is  cancelled;   we  haint 

that  no  longer  to  fear. 
The  old  farm  with  ev'rything  on  it   is  now  all  our 

own,  free  an'  clear. 
Our  trouble  an'  frettin'  is  over;  no  creditor  can  us 

alarm, 
For  we've  paid  the  last  cent  on  the  mortgage  an' 

wiped  it  clean  off  of  the  farm." 


247 


THE  SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  BROTHER 
ABNER  ELY'S. 


JOSIAH    GROTH    dropped    in    one  day,   'twas 
gettin'  'long  to'rds  night,— 

Says  he,   "My  wife  instructed  me  to  give  ye  a  invite 
To    go    with  us   on  a   drop-in    to    Brother    Abner 

Ely's; 

We  thought  we'd  go  this  evenin'  an'  give    'em   a 
surprise. 

"There's  lots  of  folks  a  goin';  Deacon  Jones  will 

take  his  sleigh 
An'  stop  at  ev'ry  house  an'  pick   up  all  along  the 

way. 
Ye  needn't  git  no  supper,   for  we'll   eat  when   we 

git  there, 
But  bring  some  victuals  'long  with  you.     Each  one 

will  fetch  their  share." 

Sary,  she  flew  'round  like  a  girl.      She  always  acts 

just  so. 
She  was  crazy  for  the  party,   but  7  didn't  want   to 

go; 
But  'twa'n't  no  use  for  me  to  talk;  when  Sary  says 

her  say, 
I  always  have  to  fall  right  in.   There  aint  no  other 

way. 

248 


THE  SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  ABNER  BLY>S. 

An'  so  we  hustled  'round  an'  got  some  biscuit,  cake 

an'  pie, 
An'  got  our  things  on  ready  for  the   sleigh  when  it 

came  by; 
An'  pooty  soon  we  heerd  it  come  a  stoppin'  by  the 

door, 
An'  when  Sary'n  me  were  both  crammed  in,  there 

wasn't  room  for  more. 

The  Deacon  druv,  an'  on   we   flew,  a  jolly-hearted 

load,— 
Dodgin'    the  snowballs  from  the  hoofs   as  on  we 

swiftly  rode, 
Till  pooty  quick,  beside  the  road,  loomed  up  before 

our  eyes, 
The    house    of  Abner  Bly  who  we  were  goin'  to 

surprise. 

The  house  was  all  closed  up  an'  dark, — the  winder 

blinds  shut  tight, 
Exceptin'  in  one  bedroom  we  could  see  a  flickerin' 

light. 
The   doctor's  horse  was   standin'  there,    tied    fast 

beside  the  gate 
An'   pawin'    in    the    snow  as   if  he  didn't    like    to 

wait. 

The   Deacon's  wife   says,    "Laws!"   says    she,    "1 

wonder  'f  some  one's  sick! 
They  all  was  well   the  last   I  heerd.      They  must 

have  been  took  quick!" 
249 


THE  SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  ABNER  BLY*S. 

The  rest    of  us    put  in  our  say,   declarin*  'twan't 

just  right 
For  Abner's  folks  to  happen  sick  on  that  partic'lar 

night. 

We  thought  perhaps  the  doctor'd  druv  ahead   to 

let  'em  know 
That  visitors  was  comin'  for  a  grand  surprise,  an' 

so 
We  ranged  ourselves  up  in  a   line  a  reachin'  from 

the  door 
Way  back  into  the  snowbanks,  a  couple  rods  or 

more. 

Then  some  one  rapped  upon  the  door; — but  all  was 

still  within. 
They  waited  'bout  a  minute,  an'  then   they  rapped 

ag'in; 

An'  then  the  door  was  opened  after  a  little  fuss, 
An'  the  neighborhood  nurse-woman   stood   starin' 

out  at  us. 

We  started  to  rush  in,   but  with  a  warnin'   "sh!" 

she  raised 
Her  hands  as  if  to   push  us  back!     Of  course  we 

were  amazed. 
Then  some  one  asked  her  what  on  airth  the  matter 

seemed  to  be; — 
"The  doctor  says  a  pair  of  twins.     A  boy  an'  girl,1' 

says  she. 

250 


THE  SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  ABNER  ELY'S. 

A  meaner  feelin'  crowd  than  us  I  b'lieve  could  not 

be  found! 
We  felt  as  if  we'd  like  to  sink  right  there  into  the 

ground! 
We  turned  away  without  a  word  an'  sneaked  off  to 

the  sleigh, 
An'  silently  crawled  in  an'  started  back  upon   our 

way. 

I    said    without    a  single  word,^ — 1  made  an  error 

there, 
For  one  old   maid  with  freckled   face  an'   scarlet 

colored  hair, 
Declared  'twas  mean  as   anything  could   be  below 

the  skies; — 
They'd  brought  this  thing  about  just  now,  to  break 

up  the  surprise. 

We  didn't  all  agree  with  her  in  what   she   had   to 

say, 
But  no  one  felt  like  speakin'  so  we  let  her  have  her 

way. 
We    all  were  mad   as  mad   could   be,    an'    loaded 

•  down  with  shame, 
An'  each  one  tried   to  think  the  others  were   the 

most  to  blame. 

The    Deacon    druv    like    sixty    over    the    drifted 

snow, 
An'  where  the  drifts  were  deepest,  the  rapidest  he'd 

go- 

251 


THE  SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  ABNER  KLY'S. 

The  Deacon's  wife  an'  Sary'n  I,  all  sat  there  on  one 

seat 
A  holdin'  on  an'  bracin'  hard  with  both  our  hands 

an'  feet. 

The  Deacon's  wife  sot  next  to   me,   an'  sure's   my 

name  is  John, 
I  had  to  grab  both  arms  around  her  waist  to  keep 

me  on! 
1  knew  'twa'n't  just  the  thing  for  such  a  moral  man 

like  me, 
But  then  there  wa'n't   no  other  way  as   near  as    I 

could  see. 

The  Deacon's  wife  she  squirmed  an'  scowled,  but 
knowin'  how  it  wuz, 

She  put  up  with  unpleasant  things  as  all  good  peo- 
ple does;  . 

But  I  was  glad  that  Sary  didn't  turn  her  eyes  that 
way, 

For  if  she  had,  well!  well!  well!  well!  there'd  some- 
thing been  to  pay. 

Bimeby  we  struck  into  a  drift;  — 'twas  sidelin'  as  a 

tent; 
One  runner  slid  up  on  the  bank,  an'  overboard  we 

went! 
I  sot  upon   the  lower  side  an'  went  out  first,   ye 

see, 
An'  Sary  an'  the  Deacon's  wife  both  fell  on  top  of 

me! 

Sary  she  weighs  two  hundred  pounds,  the  Dea- 
con's wife  still  more, 

252 


77y.fi-  SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  ABNER  ELY'S. 

An'  when  they  struck  me,  sure  I  thought  I'd  gone 

to  t'other  shore! 
They  cracked  a  dozen  of  my  ribs  an'  squashed  me 

all  out  flat, 
Till  I  felt  as  thin's  a  pancake  or  thinner  yet  than 

that. 

They  dragged  me  out  from  under    'em  an'  thought 

that  I  was  dead, 
An'  Sary  stopped  her  scoldin'  then,  an'  some  few 

tears  she  shed; 
But  after  rubbin'  me  a  while   an'   hurtin'   me   still 

more, 
They  found  that  I  was  breathin'  still,  though  pooty 

nigh  death's  door. 

They    got    me   hum   an'  into   bed,   a  sorry-lookin' 

sight;  — 
The  Deacon's  wife  an'  Sary  sot  up  with  me  through 

the  night; 
An'  while  I  lay  there   sufferin'    (I    seem  to  feel  it 

now), 
I  settled  one  thing  in  my  mind  an'  registered  this 

vow: 

As  long  as  Heaven  lets  me  live  an'  lets  me  keep  my 

mind, 

I'll  take  no  stock  in  parties  of  the  surprisin'  kind. 
I  s'pose  I'll  be  a  cripple  now  all  through  my  nat'ral 

life, 
Because    of    that    dummed    party,    Sary    an'    the 

Deacon's  wife. 

253 


THE  SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  FARMER 
JOHN'S. 


TWAS  just  about  a  month  or  so  succeedin'  the 
surprise 
That    sent  us  all  a  sneakin'  hum  ashamed,    from 

Abner  Ely's; 
I  was  jest  a  gittin'  better  from   the  hurts   that   I 

had  got 

From  Sary  an'  the  Deacon's  wife,  the  time  that  we 
upsot. 

Sary,    she'd  took  a  heavy  cold  a   dyein'  stockin' 

yarn 
An   doin'   chores  an'   lookin'  after   things   around 

the  barn, 
An'  so  she  thought  that  evenin'   she  would  take  a 

couple  pills 
An'  soak  her  feet  an'  dose  herself,   an  thus   save 

doctors'  bills. 

She  sot  there  by  the  washtub,  a  lookin'   'most  half 

dead,— 
Her  feet  stuck  in  hot  water  an'   a   bandage    'round 

her  head, 
While  I  stood  by  the   stove,   undressed,  stripped 

right  down  to  the  skin, 
A  rubbin'    liniment  on  my  back  an'   dryin'   of  it 

in  — 

254 


THE  SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  FARMER  JOHN'S. 

When  all  at  once  there  came  a  rap   a  soundin'  on 

the  door. 
An',  in  a  second,  in  there  rushed  some  forty  folks 

or  more, 
Of  men  an'  women,  boys  an'  girls  of  ev'ry  age  an' 

size, — 
Our  neighbors,  ev'ry  one,  had  come  to  give  us  a 

surprise! 

The  Deacon's  wife  was  leadin',  an'  a  foot  behind 
her  there 

Came  that  freckle-visaged  spinster  with  the  crim- 
son colored  hair! 

I  couldn't  reach  my  clothin'  but  I  jumped  behind 
the  door, 

An'  Sary  looked  as  if  she'd  faint  an'  drop  right  on 
the  floor. 

The    Deacon's    Wife    stopped    sudden    an'    looked 

'most  scared  to  death, 
While    sev'ral    more    throwed   up   their  hands  an' 

gasped  an'  caught  for  breath, 
Kxcept    the   red-haired   spinster,   she    was    lookin' 

grinnin'  on, 
An'  in  a  squeakin'  voice  she  said,  "I  wonder  where 

is  John!" 

I  stood  behind  the  door,    of  course,   a  tremblin'  in 

affright, 
An'   knowin'    I  wa'n't  fit,   just  then,   to  stand  out 

square  in  sight, 

255 


THE  SURPR/SE  PARTY  AT  FARMER  JOHN'S. 

An'  hopin'  they  would  see  just   how  things  were, 

an'  wouldn't  stay, 
An'  make  some  short  apology,  an'  then  go   right 

away. 

But  that  confounded  spinster  with  her  freckle- 
spotted  face, 

Seemed  bound  to  find  where  I  was  hid  before  she 
left  the  place; 

An'  so  she  peeked  behind  the  stove  an'  underneath 
the  bed; — 

She'd  find  where  John  was  hid  away  before  she 
quit,  she  said. 

I  didn't  say  a  word,    of  course,   but  in   a   minute 

more, 
I  seen  her  freckled  visage  come  a  peekin'  'round 

the  door; 
An'    then    she    looked  me  over   with    a    witherin', 

virtuous  stare, 
An'  said,  "You  make  a  pooty  sight!     1  r'aley  must 

declare!" 

I  tried  to  hide  my  undressed  self  the   very   best   I 

could, 
An'  git  her  lookin'  somewhere  else.      It  didn't   do 

no  good; 
An*    then  at   length   my  anger   riz.      I    didn't  talk 

polite, 
But  I  will  bet  her  big  ears  burned  at  what   I    said 

that  night. 

256 


THE  SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  FARMER  JOHN'S. 

Says    I,    "You  freckle-faced,    red-haired   insult   to 

woman's  race! 
You    lantern-jawed     hyena,    you    ill-favored,    foul 

disgrace! 
You  female  imp  of  Satan,  fresh  fromsheol's  hottest 

spot! 
You   disfigured    smirch    on   nature,    you  creation's 

foulest  blot! 

"You  dirty,  pryin',  meddlin'  thing,  you  brazen-pated 

fool! 
You  homely,    gaunt,    ungainly,    long-eared  pattern 

of  a  mule! 

You  idiotic  lunatic,  you  worst  of  all  that's  mean! 
You  loathsomest  lump   of  hatefulness   that  mortal 

ever  seen! 

"You  leave  my  house  this  minute!     Never  enter  it 

ag'in, 
You  disgrace  to  all  that's  human,  you  embodiment 

of  sin!" 
I  might  have  kept  on  talkin'  and  said  a  good  deal 

more, 
But  she  suddenly  retreated  and  rushed  out  through 

the  door. 

The  rest  of  'em  apologized, — were  sorry  that  'twas 

so, 
But  said  if  they  w'an't  welcome,   we   had  ought   to 

let  'em  know. 

257 


THE  SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  FARMER  JOHN'S. 

Of  course  we  had  to  say  we  s 'posed   their  comin' 

was  well  meant, 
An'  wishin'  us  a  short  good-night,  they  picked  up 

their  things  an'  went. 

Before    they    went,    however,     they    managed    to 

upset 
The  washtub  of  hot  water,  tan'   got  the  floor  all 

wet; 
They  broke  a  lamp,  a  chair  or  two,  an'  cracked  a 

winder  light, 
An*  wrenched  the  kitchen  door  so  that  we  couldn't 

shut  if  tight. 

An'  then,    as  if  they   thought  they  ought   to   do   a 

little  more, 
They   turned    the    table   upside    down,    an'    broke 

the  pantry  door, 
An'  locked  the  cat  up  in  the  chest, — we  found  her 

there  next  day; 
I  s'pose  they  thought  'twas  awful   smart  a  carryin' 

on  that  way. 

They  left    the  house  all   upside    down — a    reg'lar 

mixed-up  muss. 
If  a  cyclone  had  a  struck  it,  it  couldn't  been  much 

wuss. 
I  s'pose  they  meant  it  all  in  sport,  but  7  don't  like 

such  fun, 
An'  then  they  didn't  get  our  thanks  for  anything 

they'd  done. 

258 


THE  SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  FARMER  JOHN'S. 

Sary,  she  sot  right  down  an'  cried,  she  felt  so  dref- 

ful  bad; 

/  didn't  feel  like  cryin'  but  I  felt  supremely  mad; — 
An'  when,  that  night,  we  went   to  bed,   before  we 

shut  our  eyes, 
We  prayed,    "O  Lord,  don't  send   on  us   another 

such  surprise!'' 


259 


FARMER  JOHN'S  DESCRIPTION    OF    THE 
DONATION. 


WELL,  John,  did  you  like  the  donation? 
Did  the  minister  like  what  he  got? 
I  s'pose  it  was  nice  an'  worth  seein', 

An'  I  s'pose  they  brought  him  a  lot. 
I  knew  that  last  night  you  was  tired 

An'  sleepy  with  bein'  up  late, 
An'  I  knew  you  would  tell  me  this  mornin', 
An'  so  I  concluded  to  wait. 

"Now,  John,  while  I'm  gettin'  the  breakfast 

An'  you  helpin'  the  children  to  dress, 
You  can  tell  me  about  the  donation; — 

I  can  hear  while  I'm  workin',  I  guess. 
Did  ev'ry  one  seem  to  enjoy  it? 

Was  the  supper  got  up  nice  an'  good? 
Did  they  laugh  at  the  big  cake  I  sent  them? 

Did  it  taste  right?  I  thought  that  it  would." 

"Yes,  Sary,  the  supper  was  splendid, 

An'  ev'ry  one  bragged  of  your  cake; 
I  wish  you  had  been  there  to  hear  them! 

I  declare,  I  felt  proud  for  your  sake. 
I  et  till  I  couldn't  eat  longer; — 

The  victuals  were  plenty  an'  nice, 
An'  the  cakes  were  so  good  that  I  brought  you 

An'  each  of  the  children  a  slice. 

260 


FARMER  JOHN  DESCRIBES  THE  DONATION, 

"The  minister  seemed  to  be  happy 

An'  pleased  with  whatever  they  brought; 
But  I  couldn'  help  thinkin'  some  rich  ones 

Didn't  bring  quite  as  much  as  they  ought. 
Squire  Brown  brought  a  few  heads  of  cabbage, — 

I  think  half  a  dozen  or  so, 
An'  his  wife  an'  himself  an'  his  fam'ly 

Were  the  first  ones  to  supper  to  go. 

"Farmer  Smith  brought  a  bag  of  dried  apples, 

An'  a  dozen  balls  of  Dutch  cheese, 
An'  his  wife  brought  a  box  of  nice  honey, 

For  you  know  that  they  keep  lots  of  bees. 
Mrs.  Jones  brought  a  yellow  chair-tidy 

To  give  to  the  minister's  wife, 
With  a  green  and  red  dog  worked  upon  it, 

That  looked  'most  as  nat'ral  as  life. 

"Jim  Brown  gave  the  minister's  daughter 

A  monstrous,  nice,  great,   big  boquet; 
They're  goin'  to  be  married  this  winter, 

So  I  heerd  some  people  there  say. 
Well,  Jim  is  a  pretty  good  feller, 

An'  smart  as  most  boys  in  this  town; 
An'  the  minister's  girl  can't  do  better 

Than  to  marry  that  very  Jim  Brown. 

"Colonel  Pompous  was  there  with  his  daughters, 
One  each  side  hangin'  onto  his  arm; 

An'  their  breastpins  an'  earrings  an'  dresses 
Must  have  cost  as  much  as  a  farm. 
261 


FARMER  JOHN  DESCRIBES  THE  DONA  TION. 

They  didn't  stay  to  get  any  supper, 

But  went  off  in  an  hour  or  so, 
An'  they  handed  the  preacher  some  money, 

How  much  it  was,  I  don't  know. 

"Old  Lager,  who  keeps  the  brick  tavern, 

Was  there  with  his  children  an'  wife; 
I  guess  that  they  entered  the  church  door 

Last  night,  for  the  first  in  their  life. 
The  miller  came  too,  with  his  fam'ly, 

An'  he  seemed  glad  to  see  all  the  folks; 
He  kept  the  whole  crowd  there  a  laughin', 

By  gettin'  off  some  of  his  jokes. 

"I  can't  say  I  like  these  donations; — 

They  seem  most  too  much  like  a  show; 
If  t 'wasn't  for  fun  an'  for  visitin', 

I  don't  think  that  many  would  go. 
But  then,  if  they'd  give  what  was  needed 

To  help  the  poor  preacher  along, — 
Wood,  clothin',  provisions  an'  such  things, 

I  don't  think  'twould  be  quite  so  wrong. 

"They  bring  lots  of  things  that  ain't  useful, 

Like  door-mats  an'  tidies  an'  such; 
Such  things  appear  nice  in  the  parlor, 

But  they  don't  help  the  poor  preacher  much. 
I  thought  if  them  people  had  brought  him 

Some  five  or  six  cords  of  good  wood, 
'Twould  have  made  him  a  good  deal  more  happy, 

An'  done'the  poor  fellow  more  good. 

262 


FARMER  JOHN  DESCRIBES  THE  DONATION. 

"One  thing  happened  durin'  the  evenin' 

That  brought  tears  to  many  an  eye: 
Old  Widow  DeLong,  don't  you  know  her, 

Who  lives  in  the  hut  near  old  Ely? 
She  came  hobblin'  up  to  the  preacher 

With  the  help  of  her  crutch  an'  her  cane; 
Each  step  that  she  walked,  I  am  certain 

It  gave  her  the  greatest  of  pain. 

"She  handed  the  preacher  a  bundle, 

An'  asked  that  he  would  it  receive; 
She  said  that  she  wished  it  was  better 

But  'twas  all  she  was  able  to  give. 
The  minister  pleasantly  thanked  her, 

Then  open  the  paper  he  tore, 
When  out  came  a  pair  of  nice  stockings 

An'  fell  down  onto  the  floor. 

"They  were  knit  of  the  nicest  of  woolen, 

As  thick  an'  as  warm  as  a  board, 
An'  I  couldn't  but  think  the  poor  widow 

Had  given  all  she  could  afford. 
The  minister  picked  up  the  stockings, 

An'  a  tear  started  into  his  eye; — 
As  he  took  the  thin  hand  of  the  widow, 

I  thought  he  was  going  to  cry. 

•"He  blessed  her  for  what  she  had  given 
An'  told  her  her  gift  was  not  small; — 

That,  like  her  we  read  of  in  the  bible, 
Her  gift  was  the  greatest  of  all;         •  -a^. 
263 


FARMER  JOHN  DESCRIBES  THE  DONA  TION. 

For  you  know  that  the  Savior  addressed  her 
Words  that  made  the  Pharisees  mad. 

He  said  she  gave  more  than  the  others, 
For  she'd  given  quite  all  that  she  had. 

"An*  the  Widow  DeLong  she  was  cryin' 

An'  wipin'  the  tears  from  her  cheeks 
An'  holdin'  the  hand  of  the  preacher 

While  she  told  of  the  long,  weary  weeks 
When  her  last,  darlin'  boy  lay  a  dyin', 

An'  the  minister  stood  by  her  side 
An'  spoke  words  of  goodness  an'  comfort, 

An'  closed  his  dear  eyes  when  he  died. 

"She  said  that  she  wanted  to  give  him 

Something  nice  for  the  good  he  had  done; 
So  she  knit  him  a  pair  of  warm  stockings 

From  the  yarn  that  her  Willie  had  spun. 
I  noticed  her  hands  how  they  trembled, 

An'  how  long  by  the  fire  she  stood; — 
An'  then  someone  nudged  me  an'  whispered 

The  widow  was  all  out  of  wood. 

"Then  some  of  us  talked  it  all  over 

An'  made  up  we'd  give  her  a  lift 
An'  draw  her  a  pile  of  good  firewood, 

An'  make  her  a  donation  gift. 
I  promised  I'd  come  in  the  mornin' 

An'  bring  up  a  load  from  this  way; 
So  the  boys,  when  they've  eaten  their  breakfast, 

Can  load  up  the  big,  two-horse  sleigh. 

264 


FARMER  JOHN  DESCRIBES  THE  DONATION. 

"An'  we'll  give  her  a  jolly  donation 

That  will  warm  up  her  lonely,  old  heart; 
An',  Sary,  you  fix  up  some  good  things 

To  take  when  we're  ready  to  start; — 
Some  pie  an'  some  bread  an'  some  taters, 

An'  put  in  a  nice  piece  of  meat, 
An'  anything  else  you  can  think  of 

That  she  would  be  likely  to  eat. 

"An'  I  guess  you  had  better  go  with  us, — 

I  think  she'd  be  glad  it  you  would; 
An'  we'll  give  her  a  rousing  donation 

That  will  do  the  poor  creature  gome  good. 
To  be  sure,  we  have  nothing  to  squander, 

An'  we've  worked  hard  for  what  we  have  got; 
But  I  don't  think  we'll  ever  be  poorer 

For  givin'  to  them  who  have  not.  " 


265 


FARMER   JOHN'S  DESCRIPTION   OF  THE 
FAIR. 


NOW,  John,  will  ye  just  hold  the  baby 
While  I'm  clearin  the  supper  away? 
An'  we'll  have  a  good  set-down  together, 
For  I  s'pose  that  you've  got  lots  to  say 
Of  the  heaps  of  nice  things  you've  been  seein' 

This  afternoon,  down  to  the  fair; 
An'  hadn't  it  been  for  the  baby, 
I'll  bet  you  I'd  like  to  been  there! 

''Did  any  one  notice  my  door-mat 

I've  been  workin'  for  more  than  a  year? 
I'd  feel  bad  if  I  thought  it  wa'n't  noticed. 

Did  they  say  much?     Or  didn't  ye  hear? 
Was  it  nice  as  the  one  that  Jane  Ann  made 

Out  of  zephyr  an'  Shetland  an'  sich? 
Though  mine  was  made  out  of  old  flannel, 

I  thought  that  the  colors  looked  rich." 

"Well,  Sary,  they  spread  out  your  door-mat 

On  some  boards  by  th'e  side  of  the  rest; 
There  were  lots  of  'em  there  that  was  splendid, 

But  of  course  I  thought  yours  looked  the  best. 
Jane  Ann's  was  a  little  more  fancy, — 

Had  a  picture  worked  on,  of  a  cat; 
But  it  wasn't  nowheres  so  substantial, — 

Looked  more  like  a  shawl  than  a  mat. 

266 


FARMER  JOHN'S  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  FAIR. 

"But  I  didn't  look  much  at  them  fineries, 

For  ye  know  I  haint  got  much  taste 
For  things  that  don't  seem  to  be  useful; 

It  seems  most  too  much  like  a  waste 
Of  time  to  be  workin'  at  such  things 

That  aint  fit  to  eat  nor  to  wear; 
But  you  women  folks  like  to  be  workin' 

At  things  about  which  men  don't  care. 

"I  like  to  see  farmin'  utensils 

Like  wagons  an'  harrows  an'  plows 
An'  good  labor-savin'  machinery, 

An"  horses  an'  oxen  an'  cows. 
I  looked  at  such  things  pooty  closely, — 

There  was  lots  of  them  there  to  be  seen; 
An'  some  things  I  don't  know  the  names  of; 

I'd  asked,  but  they'd  thought  I  was  green. 

'There  were  piles  of  big  beets  an'  potaters, 

An'  radishes  long  as  my  arm; 
An'  the  corn  an'  the  punkins  they  showed  there 

Must  have  growed  on  some  very  rich  farm. 
There  were  cornstalks  as  long  as  a  bean-pole, — 

I'd  think  they  were  ten  feet  or  more; 
An'  cucumbers,  well,  oh  my  gracious! 

I  never  seen  such  things  before. 

•"The  cows  I  don't  think  were  such  wonders; 

They  didn't  suit  me,  not  a  bit. 
When  they  come  to  beat  our  old  Brindle, 

They've  got  to  just  get  up  an'  git! 

267 


FARMER  JOHWS  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  /-.  //A 

They  showed  up  some  pooty  fine  horses, 
An'  I  think  they  trotted  quite  smart; 

But  I  got  sick  of  their  scorin'  an'  botherin' 
Before  they  got  ready  to  start. 

"Did  they  show  any  flowers?     I  guess  so! 

The  nicest  ones  ever  I've  seen; 
I'd  liked  to  pick  off  some  an'  brought  you, 

If  I'd  thought  that  it  wouldn't  look  mean. 
There  were  pansies  an'  dahlias  an  asters 

An'  hundreds  I  never  can  name. 
We'll  try  in  our  garden  next  summer 

An'  see  if  we  can't  raise  the  same. 

"They'd  the  nicest  machines  there  for  washin' 

An'  savin'  the  women-folks  work; 
I  thought  you'd  like  one  of  'em,  Sary, 

Though  i  know  you're  no  woman  to  shirk. 
So  I  bought  one  an'  paid  down  the  money; 

They'll  bring  it  to-morrow  by  night; 
I  know  pooty  well  that  you'll  like  it, 

'Twill  make  your  big  washin's  so  light. 

"Such  big  crowds  of  people  together, 

I  never  have  seen  in  my  life. 
It  seemed  that  each  man  in  the  county 

Was  there  an'  had  brought  'long  his  wife. 
There  were  boys  with  their  whiskers  just  startin', 

With  their  girls  hangin1  onto  their  arm, 
Chewin'  peanuts  an'  crackers  an'  candies, 

First  they'd  ever  been  off  of  the  farm. 

268 


FARMER  JOHN'S  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  FAIR. 

"Some  drunken  ones  staggerin'  an'  swearin', 

Scarin'  women  an'  children  to  death; — 
Pollutin'  the  fresh  air  of  heaven 

With  their  whisky  an'  beer  tainted  breath. 
I  think  that  such  miserable  wretches 

Ought  never  to  go  to  a  fair. 
They're  a  curse  to  themselves  an'  their  fam'lies 

An'  ev'ry  one  else  that  is  there. 

"There's  much  that  is  good  in  such  gatherin's, 

An'  a  good  deal  that  isn't  just  right; — 
There's  a  big  chance,  1  think,   for  improvement; — 

I've  been  thinkin'  it  over  to-night. 
I  s'pose  that  the  judges  are  honest, 

An'  the  premiums  went  where  they  should; 
But  r'aley,  I  think  that  some  poor  things 

Fared  better  than  those  that  were  good/' 


269 


FARMER  JOHN  COMPARES  THE  OLD 
WITH  THE  NEW   IN  EDUCATION. 


I    TELL   you,    Sary,  times   have  changed  since 
you  an'  I  were  young; 
There's  lots  of  new  things,  good  an'  bad,  have  into 

bein'  sprung, 
An'   1'arnin'  aint  the  thing  it  was  'bout  fifty  year 

ago, 

.An'  schools  aint  what  they  used  to  be,  not  by  a 
lengthy  show. 

Long  years  ago  when  I  was  young,  I  went  to 
deestrict  school 

Down  in  the  old  log  schoolhouse,  where  the  mas- 
ter used  to  rule 

With  will  an'  hand  of  iron,  an'  voice  as  strong  an' 
loud 

As  thunder  peals  that  crashin'  come  from  out  the 
threatenin'  cloud. 

I  think  I  see  the  master  yet  as   oft   I've  seen  him 

stand, — 
A   frown   upon  his  scowlin'  face,  a  cudgel   in  his 

hand, — 
The  scholars  in  a  shiverin'  fear  an'  tremblin',   big 

an'  small, 
Not  knowin'  on  whose  luckless  back  the  master's 

blows  would  fall. 

270 


Long  years  ago  when  I  was  y  oung,  I  went  to  deestrict 

school 
Down  in  the  old  log  schoolhouse,  where  the  master  used 

to  rule. 


FARMER  JOHN  COMPARES  THE  OLD 

He  pounded  1'arnin'  in  our  heads  by  boxin'  of  bur 

ears, 
An'  salted  ev'ry  lesson  down  with  our  own  briny 

tears; 
He  gave  us  marks  upon  our  backs  that  lasted  days 

an'  weeks 
After  the   tear-drops  brought    by  pain   had    dried 

upon  our  cheeks. 

He  boarded  all  the  deestrict  'round,  a  week  in  ev'ry 

place, 
But  didn't  find  in  ev'ry  home  a  pleasant,   smilin' 

face. 
He  used  to  hang  around  the  girls  an 'silly  nonsense 

talk 
Until  they'd  wish  he'd  turn  his  back  an'  show  how 

he  could  walk. 

We  1'arned  our  letters  one  by  one,  an'  then  com- 
menced to  spell, 

Till  "Webster's  Elementary"  we  thought  we  knew 
quite  well; 

And  then  the  "English  Reader"  came,  an'  when  we 
once  could  read 

What  Pope  an'  Dryden  wrote,  we  thought  that  we 
were  smart  indeed. 

We    tugged    at    "Darboll"   weeks  an'   weeks    an' 

1'arned  by  rote  each  rule, 
An'  each  one  tried  to  be  the  best  at  cypherin'   in 

the  school; 

272 


WITH  THE  NEW  IN  EDUCATION. 

An'  when  at  length  we  got  as  far  as   "Double  Rule 

of  Three," 
We    thought    we'd    reached    the    highest    limb    of 

Mathematics'  tree. 

You'd  hardly  see  a  grammar  then  in  any  deestrict 

school; 
We  thought  that  studies  such  as  that  would  make 

a  boy  a  fool; 
We  couldn't  see  no  sense  in  it;  this  parsin'  verbs 

an'  nouns 
Seemed  just  about   as  silly  as  the  talk  of  circus 

clowns. 

An'    algebra,    we    thought    of  course    no    one   but 

merchants  use 
For  markin'  sly  the  price  of  goods  so   that  they 

wouldn't  lose. 
•Geometry!    Well,    I  declare!     Don't  think   I  ever 

heard 
In  all  the  days  I  went  to  school,   not  even  such  a 

word. 

But,  Sary,  things  have  changed  so  much  between 

that  time  an'  now, 
It  almost  turns  my  old  brain  'round!  I  feel,  I  don't 

know  how. 
I  used  to  think  I  know'd  some  things  'bout  'rith- 

metic  an'  such, 
But  now  I  find  that  what  I  know  don't  all  amount 

to  much. 

273 


FARMER  JOIL\  COM/'.  /A'A.S'  77/7:  ()/./) 

Why,  Sary,  children  know  more  now  than  big  folks 

used  to  then! 
Our  little  boys  that  go  to  school  can  talk  as  big 

as  men, 
An'  tell  us  lots  about  the   stars  a  shinin'   in  the 

sky, 
That  they  are  tvorlds  so  far  away,    although   they 

look  so  nigh. 

Our  boys  can  tell  us  wondrous  things  about  the  sea 

an'  land, 
How  God  took  ages  to  make  both  as  now  we  see 

them  stand; 
An'  how  He  dug  the  valleys  down  an'  reared  the 

mountains  high 
That  look  so  much  like  pillars  vast  to  help  uphold 

the  sky. 

They'll  tell  us  how  the  rocks  were  made  an'  fixed 

fast  in  their  place, 
An'  how  the  coal  we  burn  was  formed,   an'  all  its 

stages  trace. 
They'll  tell  us  how  some  kinds  of  rocks  were  made 

from  shells  an'  bones, 
An'  how  the  glaciers  scattered  'round  the  massive 

boulder  stones. 

They'll  tell  us  how  the  air  we  breath  don't  reach 

up  very  high, 
Although  we  used  to  think  it  went  'way  up  into  the 

sky. 

274 


WITH  THE  NEW  IN  EDUCATION. 

They'll  tell  us  that  the  dew  don't  fall,   but  comes 

some  other  way, 
An'  all  these  things  they'll  prove  to  us  an'  make 

'em  plain  as  day. 

There's    lots    of    schoolgirls  now    can    tell     how 

plants  an'  grasses  grow, 
An'  how  the  leaves  an'  buds  are  formed,  an'  how 

the  flowers  blow; 
They'll  tell  us  how  they  gather  up  their  food  from 

earth  an'  air, 
An'  lots  of  things  so  wonderful  it  makes  me  stand 

an'  stare. 

The  schoolbooks  too,  are  different  from  what  they 
used  to  be; 

Somehow  they  make  things  plainer,  so  that  ev'ry 
one  can  see. 

The  schoolroom  walls  are  covered  now  with  black- 
boards an'  with  maps, 

Instead  of  pegs  we  used  to  see  for  hangin  hats  an' 
caps; 

They've  globes  an'  other  fixin's  now  we  never  heard 
of  then, 

For  teachin'  boys  to  grow  up  into  educated  men. 

School-teachers  too,  are  different  now  from   them 

of  years  ago; 
They're  better  1'arned  in  ev'rything  than  them  we 

used  to  know; 
275 


FARMER  JOHN  COMPARES  THE  OLD,   &c. 

They're  proud  of  their  profession,  an'  they've  got 

their  standard  high, 
An'  bound  to  make  it  higher  still.      They'll  do  it  if 

they  try. 

They  teach  their  scholars  how  to  speak  an'  how  to 
act  polite. 

They  didn't  u*e.  to  do  it  so,  but  then  I  think  it's 
right. 

It  makes  me  kind  o'  feel  ashamed  of  my  old- 
fashioned  ways, 

An'  wish  I  could  a'  been  a  boy  in  these  enlightened 
days. 

I  tell  you,    Sary,    I   don't  know  what   things  will 

happen  next; 
This  world  is  rushin'  on  so  fast  it   makes  me  quite 

perplexed. 
They've  harnessed  lightnin'  with  a  wire,   an'  made 

it  do  their  will, 
An'|]  hitched  up  steam  to  draw  their  loads  through 

valley  an'  o'er  hill. 

We  old  folks  won't  be  nowhere  soon;  they'll  leave 

us  all  behind. 
We  can't  keep  step  with  younger  ones  in  this  fast 

march  of  mind; 
But  we  can  bid  the  age  Godspeed  in  all   it  does 

that's  right 
Till  Truth,  with  radiance  like  the  sun,  shall  lighten 

Error's  night. 

276 


HIRING  THE  TEACHER. 


GOOD   mornin',    young    feller!    Yes,    I'm    the 
trustee. 
If  you're  wantin'  the  school,  I'm  the  man  you  must 

see. 

I  s'pose  you've  got  1'arnin'  enough  to  keep  school, 
An'  gumption  to  make  ev'ry  child  mind  the  rule? 

"Our   deestrict    aint    large,    but   the    scholars    are 

rough; 
They've    all    got   the    grit,  —  they're   a  hard   lot  to 

bluff;— 

They're  awkward  as  oxen  an'  stubborn  as  mules, 
An'  won't  be  tied  down  by  no  high-soundin'  rules. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  too  light  for  our  deestrict,    my 

lad; 

Ye  look  young  an'  green,  an'  I'd  feel  awful  bad 
To  see  'em  a  pitchin'  ye  out  of  the  door 
Like  they  did  the   poor  fellow  that   teached  here 

before. 

"What!    Don't  ye  scare  yet?    Well,  you're  chuck 

full  of  grit; 
But  I'm   'fraid  if  you  try  it,   you'll   back  down   a 

bit. 
I     tell    ye     they're   bad   ones; — there  can't  be   no 

wuss, 

An'  I  woudn't  advise  ye  to  git  in  a  muss. 
277 


HIKING  THE  TEACHER. 

"We  don't  want  no   teacher  who's  great   on    the 

mash, 

If  we  ketch  ye  at  thai,   sir,  we'll  settle  yer  hash! 
We    don't    stand    no    flirtin'    with    girls    in    this 

place, — 
Try    that,    an'    the    boys'll  soon    smash    yer   fine 

face! 

"I   s'pose   ye    don't    swear    nor    drink    liquor    nor 

chew, 

Nor  spit  on  the  carpet  like  some  teachers  do. 
Our    women's    partic'lar     'bout    such    things,     ye 

know, 
An'  they  like  folks  around  'em  that's  jest  about  so. 

"Board  around?  Why,  of  course  you'll  do  that,  to 

be  sure, 
An'  ye  won't  skip  any  fam'lies   because   they   are 

poor. 
If  they  will  send  to  school,  they  must  help  in  some 

way 
To  pay  off  the  teacher; — that's  jest  what  7  say. 

"Well  then,  if  ye  think  ye  can  manage  the  school 
An'  make  the  big  boys  step  right  up  to  each  rule, 
We'll  give  ye  a  trial  an'  wish  ye  good  luck; 
But  you'll  find  out,  young  feller,    you'll   need  lots 
of  pluck." 


278 


THE  SCHOOL-MEETIN'. 


WE   wanted  to  build   a  new  schoolhouse;    the 
old  one  was  gittin'  too  small; 
'Twouldn't  answer  the  wants  of  the  deestrict — that 

was  jest  the  opinion  of  all, 
'Cept  a  few  of  the   fogies  among  us   who   thought 

the  old  buildin'  would  do, 

Or  at  most,  we  could  fix  it  a  little;  'twould  cost  less 
than  buildin'  a  new. 

So  we  finally  called  a  school-meetin',    an1  most  of 

the  deestrict  was  there; 
The  buildin'  was  pooty  well   crowded,    not  much 

room  to  speak  of,  to  spare; — 
I  noticed  some  women  amongst  'em;  they'd  come 

there  to  vote,  so  they  said; 
But  somehow  I  thought  they'd  look  better  a  puttin' 

the  children  to  bed. 

The  chairman  he  rapped  on   the  table  an"   told  us 

we'd  met  there  that  night 
To  consider  'bout  buildin'   a  schoolhouse,    an'  not 

for  to  quarrel  an'  fight; 
He  hoped  we  would  all   act  like  neighbors,   each 

doin'  the  best  that  he  could 
To  act  out  the  wish  of  the   deestrict,   an'   help   on 

the  general  good. 

279 


THE  SCHOOL-MEETIN\ 

Then   up   got   old    Jimmy    McGowner   an'    looked 

'round  the  room  with  a  scowl 
An'  begun  to  find  fault  with  his  neighbors;  but  his 

speech  wa'n't  much  more  than  a  growl. 
He   said   the  old  schoolhouse  was  handy,   though 

mebbe  a  little  too  small 
An'  needed  a  leetle  addition,—  some  ten  foot  or  so, 

that  was  all. 

Then  up  jumped  a  dashin'  young  feller;  he  said  we 

had  met  to  discuss 
A  matter  of  gineral  interest  and  weighty  importance 

to  us: — 
He  said  that  we  wanted  a  schoolhouse  we  all  could 

contemplate  with  pride,  — 
A  credit  to.  our  school-deestrict, — a  mark'  of  our 

progress  beside. 

Then  somebody  made  a  proposal   we  vote   on  the 

cost  of  the  thing, 
An'  not  spend  the  time  makin'  speeches;  if  we  did 

we  could  set  there  till  spring, 
An'  then  we'd  not  be  any  nearer  to  what  we   had 

come  there  to  do; 
So    'twas    best    to    git    right    into    business    if   we 

wanted  to  push  the  thing  through. 

So  it  was  voted  to  put  up  a  buildin'  that  shouldn't 
exceed  in  its  cost 

Some  seven  or  eight  hundred  dollars,  or  nine  hun- 
dred dollars  at  most; 

280 


THE  SCHOOL-MEETING 

It  made  quite  a  grumblin'  an'  mutterin',  made  some 

of  'em  catch  for  their  breath; — 
They  said  that  a  house  so  expensive  would  be  taxin' 

'em  almost  to  death. 

But   finally  they  got   that  p'int   settled;  and   then 

some  one  riz  to  his  feet 
An'  said  there  was  yet  one  thing  further  for  which 

we'd  been  called  on  to  meet. 
The  place  where  the  buildin'  was  standin'he  didn't 

consider  jest  right, 
So  he  moved  that  a  vote  should  be  taken  to  build 

on  a  different  site. 

'Twas    like    stickin'    a    match    into    powder — this 

wantin'  to  change  the  old  site, 
An'  half  of  them  swore  'twas   an  outrage!     Before 

they  would  stand  it  they'd  fight! 
An'  then  such  a  jawin'  an'  quarrelin' — one   tellin' 

another  he  lied, 
An'  the  women  a  screamin'  an'  screechin '—each 

takin'  her  own  husband's  side. 

The  chairman   he  rapped   on  the  table   an'  yelled 

just  the  best  that  he  could 
To  git  'em  to  stop  the  confusion,   but  it  didn't  do 

one  bit  of  good. 
They  kept  on  a  jawin'  an'   quarrelin'   an'  shakin' 

their  fists  in  the  air, 
An'  one  was  a  howlin'  to   t'other  to  meet  him  half 

way  if  he  dare. 

281 


THE  SCHOOL-MEEJ  l\ 

'Twas    shameful    the  way   that  they   acted; — wild 

beasts  couldn't  do  any  wuss, 
For  they  haint  got   the  power  that   men   have   to 

swear  at  each  other  an'  cuss; 
But  one  thing   I   seen  pooty   closely, — I   couldn't 

help  noticin'  it, 
The  ones  that  was  talkin'  fight  loudest,   kept  back 

where  they  wouldn't  get  hit. 

There  wasn't  no  bloodshed  among  'em,  though  one 

of  'em  got  a  black  eye, 
But  that  was  a  lesson  to  others  that   made  'em  a 

leetle  bit  shy, 
An'  after  a  while  they   got  quiet  enough   for  the 

chairman  to  speak, 
An'  he  yelled  jest  as  loud's  he  could  holler:    "The 

meetings  adjourned  for  one  week!'1 

The  next  week  they  all   came   together  to  vote  on 

the  changin'  of  site; 
But  you'd  thought  from  the  way  that   they  acted, 

they'd  met  jest  to  quarrel  an'  fight. 
They  seemed    to    forget    they  were  neighbors  an' 

ought  to  be  generous  an'  kind, 
But  the  question  of  changin'  the  schoolhouse  drove 

ev'rything  else  from  their  mind. 

They  didn't  do  much  at  that  meetin',  but  adjourned 

for  another  week  more, 
An'  the  next  meetin'  wasn't  much  better,  but  jest 

'bout  the  same  as  before: — 

282 


THE  SCHOOL-MEETING 

The   people    who    once  were   good  neighbors    an' 

pleasant  whenever  they'd  meet, 
Now  quarreled  an'  snarled  at  each  other  whenever 

they'd  meet  in  the  street. 

But  at  last  the  matter  was   settled, — the  buildin' 

put  on  a  new  site; — 
The   deestrict   all  liked   it  much  better,   an'   ev'ry 

one  said  'twas  jest  right. 
We're  all   of    us    proud    of    our    schoolhouse;    'tis 

neither  too  large  nor  too  small, 
An'  the  neighbors  are  all  of  'em  friendly,  an'  that  is 

the  best  of  it  all. 


283 


OLD  JONES. 


JONES  dead,  did  ye  say?     Well,  that's  sudden! 
He's  only  been  sick  'bout  a  week, 
An'  nobody  thought  he  was  dang'rous; 

But  life's  but  a  span,  so  to  speak! 
Did  ye  say  he  ketched  cold  while  a  workin' 

That  terrible  day  in  the  rain? 
'Twas  too  bad  for  a  dog  to  be  out  in! 

Why,  the  man  must  have  been  'most  insane! 

Well,  he's  gone,  an'  he's  left  lots  of  money; 

He  had  to  leave  that  all  behind; 
But  it  makes  a  nice  pile  for  his  widder 

An'  his  poor,  crippled  boy  that  is  blind. 
His  days  of  hard  workin'  are  over, — 

His  days  of  hard  toilin'  to  save; 
He's  gone  to  his  home  in  the  churchyard, 

To  his  long,  quiet  rest  in  the  grave. 

'Most  ev'ry  one  called  him  a  miser. 

An'  said  he  was  hard  in  his  deal; 
They  said  he  was  rough  an'  unchristian, 

An'  hadn't  a  heart  that  could  feel. 
We  know  he  would  swear  like  a  pirate, 

An'  tear  around  when  he  got  mad, 
An'  say  that  some  preachers  were  rascals, 

Who'd  go,  when  they  died,  to  the  bad. 

284 


OLD  JONES. 

He  hadn't  no  mercy  for  loafers 

An'  lazy  folks  loungin'  about; 
If  ever  they  came  hangin'  'round  him, 

He'd  most  mighty  quick  kick  'em  out. 
He  didn't  give  much  for  the  heathen, — 

He  said  they  were  too  far  away; — 
We'd  lots  of  poor  heathen  amongst  us, 

We  could  help,  if  we  wished,  ev'ry  day. 

But  he  wasn't  so  bad  as  they  called  him, 

Though  sometimes  he  acted  so  rough; 
For  ye  know  that  along  in  last  winter 

When  times  were  so  awfully  tough 
That  'twas  hard  for  the  poor  an'  the  sickly 

To  git  what  they  wanted  to  eat; 
An'  even  some  others  amongst  us 

Had  hard  work  to  make  both'  ends  meet, 

How  he  hunted  up  work  for  the  poor  folks, 

An'  sot  'em  a  sawin'  up  wood 
Or  threshin'  or  shovelin'  out  snowdrifts 

Or  anything  else  that  he  could, 
An'  paid  every  man,  too,  his  wages 

To  the  very  last  cent  that  he'd  earned; — 
In  that  way  he  done  more  for  the  needy 

Than  anyone  else  as  I've  learned. 

When  Widder  McLane's  only  cow  died 
An'  her  children  were  cryin'  for  milk, 

While  some  neighbors  had  more  than  they  wanted, 
An'  were  dressin'  their  bodies  in  silk, 

285 


OLD  JONES. 

Then  old  Jones  said  nothin'  to  no  one, 
But  picked  out  his  best  new-milk  cow, 

An'  druv  her  right  up  to  the  widder's; — 
It  surprised  her  somewhat,  I'll  allow. 

When  Smith  broke  his  arm  last  October 

An'  his  fam'ly  was  sufferin'  for  food, 
Old  Jones  took  him  lots  of  provisions, 

Besides  sev'ral  loads  of  hard  wood. 
Yet  he  never  was  blowin'  his  trumpet, 

Nor  braggin'  of  what  he  had  done; 
But  if  any  one  needed  a  liftin', 

He  was  always  on  hand  the  first  one. 

So  old  Jones  is  dead!  Well,  I'm  sorry. 

We'll  miss  him  a  good  deal,  1  guess; 
Though  he  sometimes  was  rough  an'  high-tempered, 

He  was  always  good-hearted  no  less. 
The  poor  folks  will  miss  him  next  winter 

When  their  meat  an'  potatoes  get  low; — 
When  the  wolf  in  their  doors  is  a  starin', 

What  a  good  friend  they've  lost,  then  they'll  know. 

I  don't  care  who  calls  him  a  sinner, 

They  can  talk  just  as  much  as  they  may; 
But  I  b'lieve  if  there's  ever  a  heaven, 

Old  Jones  he  has  gone  there  to  stay. 
If  ev'ry  one  lived  just  as  honest 

An'  done  just  as  much  for  the  poor, 
1  don't  think  there'd  be  so  much  trouble 

In  findin'  the  heavenly  door. 

286 


FARMER    JOHN'S    ADVICE    TO    HIS    SON. 


7-|-\ELL,  Tom,   you're  twenty-one  to-day;  you 

Vlx  aint  a  boy  no   more; 

You're  master  of  yourself  now,  Tom;  you've  never 

been  before. 
You're  goin'  out  into  the  world,  I  hope  you'll  find 

it  kind, 
But    don't   forget  the  old   home,    Tom,    nor  them 

that's  left  behind. 

Don't  put  on  too  much  steam   at   first,   an'  try  to 

rush  too  fast, 
But  feel  your  way  with  cautious  steps;  you'll  come 

out  best  at  last. 
Don't  crowd  your  way  'long  through  the  world  by 

thrustin'  men  aside, 
Nor  yet  be  like  the  rloatin'  drift  that's  carried  with 

the  tide. 

Be  sure  you're  right  before  you  start,  and  then  go 

straight  ahead; 
In    duty's    path    keep   travelin'    on    with    firm    an' 

manly  tread; — 
Don't  mind  the  scoffs  and  sneers  that  come  from 

shallow-pated  fools 
Who'll  try  to  turn  you  from  the  right;  they're  only 

Satan's  tools. 

287 


FARMER  JOHN'S  ADVICE  TO  HIS  SON. 

Don't  tell  to  every  man  you  meet  what  you  intend 

to  do, 
Nor  make  a  friend  of  every  one  that  seems  a  friend 

to  you; 
But  when  you've  proved  one's  friendship  and  found 

it  true  as  gold, 
Then    stick    to   him    through    thick    an'    thin; — he 

can't  be  bought  nor  sold. 

Steer  clear  of  brawls  an'  quarrels,  an'  dodge  them 
if  you  can; 

But  if  you  get  mixed  up  in  one,  then  show  your- 
self a  man. 

Defend  with  all  the  power  you  have  the  side  you 
b'lieve  is  right, 

An'  others  will  respect  you  when  they  know  that 
you  can  fight. 

When  men  advise,  then  lend  an  ear  to  what   they 

have  to  say, 
But  follow,  when  you  come  to  act,  where  judgment 

leads  the  way; 
For  if  you  try  to  to  take  the  course  that  each  one 

marks  for  you, 
You'll  surely  fail  in  everything  you  undertake  to 

do. 

Men  often  judge  a  stranger  by  the  clothes  they  see 
him  wear, 

And  I  won't  undertake  to  say  but  what  that  judg- 
ment's fair. 


FARMER  JOHN'S  ADVICE  TO  HIS  SON. 

Wear  garments  that  will  fit  your   form   an'   make 

you  look  well-dressed, 
An'  do  not  think  the  cheapest  ones  must  always  be 

the  best. 

Be  fair  and  square  toward   every  man  with   whom 

you  have  to  deal, 
An'  if  he  gets  the  start  of  you  in   business,    never 

squeal; 
But    don't    get    caught    the    second    time    by    any 

trickster's  game, 
For  if  you  do  there's  no  one  but  yourself  will  be  to 

blame. 

Beware  of  vice  in  every  form.  Beware  the  tempter's 
wiles. 

The  devil  oftentimes  employs  fair  woman's 
sweetest  smiles; 

But  if  you  keep  your  spirit  pure,  and  an  untar- 
nished name, 

You'll  never  need  to  hang  your  head  to  hide  the 
blush  of  shame. 

Whene'er   you  meet  a  fallen   one  on    whom    the 

people  frown, 
Don't  put  your  foot  upon  his  neck  an'  press  him 

lower  down; 
But  take  him  by  the  hand  and  give  him  help  and 

kind  good-will;— 
Remember   that   he  once  was   pure,    an'  that  he's 

human  still. 

289 


FARMER  JOHWS  ADVICE  TO  HIS  SON. 

An'  take  the  Bible  for  your  guide;  you  can't  go  far 
astray 

As  long  as  you  keep  steerin'  where  the  Good  Book 
points  the  way. 

"Twill  make  you  honest,  true  an'  good  an'  stead- 
fast in  the  right, 

An"  show  you  to  your  fellow-men,  a  bright  an' 
shinin'  light. 

Make  every  day  a  record  be  of  some   good   action 

done; 
Thus  shall  your  life,   though  long  or  short,    be  a 

successful  one. 
An'  then  when  death   shall   fold  your    hands,   your 

earthly  labors  o'er, 
You'll  hear  God's  holy  angels  shout,  "Welcome  to 

heaven's  bright  shore.  " 


290 


THE  SCHOHARIE  DUTCHMAN. 


BROAD-SHOULDERED  and  sinewy,  brawny 
of  limb, 

Filled  with  big-heartedness  full  to  the  brim, 
Jolly  good-nature  from  each  feature  glows, 
Sunshine  moves  with  him  wherever  he  goes. 
Smiles  wreathe  the  lips  of  the  wretched  andjpoor 
When  his  big,  burly  form  is   seen  entering   their 

door, 
For    he   brings    not    upbraidings    their   hunger    to 

greet, 
But  money  to  buy  bread,  potatoes  and  meat. 

His  home  beams  with  sunshine, — his  children  and 

wife 

He  loves  with  a  love  that  is  lasting  as  life; 
You  may   search,    if  you  will,   through   the  whole 

country  'round, 

And  no  cleanlier  women  will  ever  be  found. 
Their    pans    shine    like    silver    all    burnished    and 

bright, 

Their  linen  is  purest,  immaculate  white; 
The  choicest  of  viands  their  table  affords, 
Which  would  tempt  e'en  the  palates  of  princes  or 

lords. 

291 


////•:  SCHOHARIE 

No  bickerings  mar  the  complete  amity, 

For  parents  and  children  together  agree. 

The  sons  do  their  portion  the  burdens  to  bear, 

And  of  household  economy  shirk  not  their  share. 

The  daughters  scorn  not  their  old  mother  to  aid, 

Nor  seek  the  more  arduous  toil  to  evade. 

Each  one  is  a  model  of  virtue  and  grace, 

And  a  smile  of  good-nature  illumines  her  face. 

Not    too    tall  nor  too    short   is   her    well-moulded 

form, 
And  the  size  'round  her  waist  just  the  length  of  my 

arm. 

No  bloomers  she  wears  nor  bifurcated  skirts, 

Nor  collars  and  bosoms  of  masculine  shirts. 

With  a  heart  filled  with  love  for  the  man  of  her 

choice, 

Whoever  shall  get  her  will  always  rejoice 
That    when    searching    around    for   a    partner    for 

life, 
He  was  wise  when  he  chose  the  Dutch  girl  for  his 

wife. 

When  the  cold  snows  of  winter  have  melted  away 
And  fields  with  early  spring  flowers  are  gay, 
Then    the  jolly  Dutch  farmer  goes  forth  with  all 

speed, 

To  furrow  the  soil  and  put  in  the  seed. 
His  broad-shouldered  sons  put  their  hands  to  the 

work, — 
Not  one  of  them  wishes  the  labor  to  shirk. 

292 


THE  SCHOHARIE  DUTCHMAN. 

His    sleek,    well-fed    team,     with    a   whinny]  and 

snort, 
Draw  the  harrow  and   plow  o'er   the   fields  as   in 

sport. 

When  summer  time  comes  and  the  air  is  all  gay 
With  the  perfume  of  flowers  and  newly-mown  hay, 
Then   the  ringing  of  scythes   in   the   meadows  we 

hear, 
And  the  laugh  of  the  mowers  conies  borne  to  the 

ear. 

When  up  from  the  west  the  dark  cloud  rises  fast, 
And    the  thunder's  deep  growl   bids   the    laborers 

haste, 
Then  the  mother  and  girls  from  the  house  speed 

away 
To  assist  what  they  can  in  securing  the  hay. 

When  the  autumn  time  wanes  and  the  ample  old 

barn 
Is  filled    to  the    peak   with    the    wheat,    oats    and 

corn, 
And  Thanksgiving  Day  comes  as  it  comes  once  a 

year 
With  its   turkeys   and   puddings   and  ample   good 

cheer, 

Then  the  jolly  old  Dutchman  forgets  not  to  pay 
The  respect  and  the  honor  he  thinks  due  the  day. 
'Tis  a  joy  on  that  day  to  sit  down  at  his  board 
And  partake  of  the  luxuries  wealth  can  afford. 

293 


THE  SCHOHARIE  DUTCHMAN, 

When    winter   time   comes    and    the    threshing   is 

done, 

The  corn  is  all  husked  and  the  flax  is  all  spun, 
The  wood  all  drawn  up  and  piled  high   near  the 

door 

To  keep  the  fire  burning  till  winter  is  o'er;— 
No  work  to  be  done  but  to  care  for  the  stock 
While  the  ground  is  all  frozen  as  hard  as  a  rock, 
Then  the  jolly  old   Dutchman    grows    fat    at    his 

ease, 
Till  his  body  swells  out  so  he  can't  cross  his  knees. 

When  the  frost  and  the   snow  on  the  winter  gales 

ride, 

And  the  Storm  Demon  shrieks  in  his  fury  outside, 
When  the  fire  glows  bright  in  the  old  fireplace, 
Then  a  smile  of  contentment  steals  over  his  face. 
When    the  evening   comes    on  and  the  supper  is 

o'er, 

The  jingling  of  sleigh-bells  is  heard  at  his  door; 
A  load  of  his  neighboring  farmers  has  come 
With    their  wives  and  their  children  to  visit  his 

home. 

Then  all  draw  around  the  wide-mouthed  fireplace, 
And  the  bright,  dancing  flame  brings  a  glow  to 

each  face, 

The  apples  and  cider  and  nuts  are  brought  'round 
And  laughter  and  mirth  and  good  feeling  abound. 
The  men  talk  of  horses  and  cattle  and  grain, 

294 


THE  SCHOHARIE  DUTCHMAN. 

The  women  of  babies  and  housework  complain; 
But  never  a  sentence  of  scandal*is  heard, 
Nor  scorn  of  their  neighbors,  not  even  a  word. 

God  bless  the  old  Dutchman   with'^unalloyed  joys, 
And  blessings  pour  down  on  his  girls  and  his  boys; 
And  when  this  life  earthly  with  us  shall  be  o'er 
And  our  feet  lightly  press  the  fair,  evergreen  shore, 
When  the  rich,  gold-paved  streets  and  the  brilliant 

white  throne 

By  shining-winged  angels  to  us  shall  be  shown, 
Schoharie's  old  Dutchman  among  them  will  stand, 
Clad  in  glittering  robes,  with  a  harp  in  his  hand. 


295 


FARMER   JOHN    ON    THE    ALBANY    CITY 
HOSPITAL. 


WELL,  Sary,  I'm  back   from  the  Hospital:  — 
the  doctors  say  I  am  'most  well; 
An'  while  I  am  convalescing,  I've   lots  of  experi- 
ence to  tell. 
The   Hospital's   a   grand  institution; — the  doctors 

are  skillful  an'  kind; — 

The    nurses    are   just    what    they    should    be; — no 
nobler  young  ladies  you'll  find. 

I  went  there  next  thing  to  a  dead  man, — the  darkest 

of  prospects  in  view; 
But  God  an'  the  doctors  an'  nurses  joined  together 

in  pullin'  me  through, 
An'  now  I  am  back  with  you,  Sary,   I'll  soon  be  a 

sound,  healthy  man: 
I  want  to  give  God  an'  the  Hospital  the  highest  of 

praises  I  can. 

I    ain't    advertisin'     the     Hospital,    for    ev'ry    one 

plainly  can  see 
The  wonderful   cures   there  effected   speak   louder 

than  language  from  me. 
May  God  bless  the  grand  institution  that  surely  is 

Albany's  pride, 
An'  God  bless  the  doctors  an'  nurses  an'  every  one 

else  there  beside. 
296 


FARMER  JOHN  ON  THE  ALBANY  HOSPITAL. 

There  are  those  I  will  always  remember  with  kind- 
est of  feelings  for  all; — 

First  Dr.  McDonald,  the  surgeon,  as  large  'round 
the  waist  as  he's  tall, 

And  the  big  heart  that  beats  in  his  bosom,  if  in 
weight  as  in  size  it  shall  run, 

Will  make  the  full  weight  of  the  doctor  not  less 
than  a  quarter  of  a  ton. 

Doctors  Richardson,   Cunningham,   Griffin,  whose 

names  I  shall  never  forget, 
\Yith  others,   all  grand-hearted  fellows  an'  skillful 

as  any  you've  met; 
And  then  too  MacMullen  and  Gibroy  are  orderlies 

skillful  an'  kind; — 
Search  all  the  world  over  and  never  more  capable 

artists  you'll  find. 

Then  there's  Miss  McDonnell,  the  matron,  whom 

nature  just  fits  for  her  place, 
While  dignity  governs  each  movement,  good-nature 

beams  forth  from  her  face: — 
Looks  after  the  needs  of  the  patients,    regarding 

the  good  of  each  one, 
And  keeps  both  her  eyes  on  the  nurses  to  see  that 

their  duties  are  done. 

Then  there  are  the  nurses,  God  bless  them,  with 
hearts  full  of  zeal  in  their  work: 

Not  one  lazy  one  in  their  number,  not  one  who 
her  duties  will  shirk. 

297 


FARMER  JOHN  ON  THE  ALBANY  HOSPITAL. 

I  think  it  each  doctor's   plain  duty,   the  very  best 

deed  in  his  life, 
To  pick  out  some  one  of  their  number  and  make 

that  fair  damsel  his  wife. 

Miss  Mason,  with  heart  full  of  kindness,  as  softly 
she  steps  in  each  room, 

Brings  sunshine  and  joy  with  her  presence,  dispel- 
ling the  darkness  and  gloom, — 

Arranging  the  pillows  and  blankets  with  smiles  and 
with  kind  words  of  cheer; — 

The  pain  and  the  suffering  lessen  whenever  Miss 
Mason  is  near. 

Miss  Welch  and  Miss  Bielby  are  models  of  all  that 

is  cheerful  an'  kind: 
A  patient,  with  their  kind  attendance,   to  illness  is 

almost  resigned. 
They  know  what  to  do,  when  to  do  it,   and  do  just 

what  ought  to  be  done, 
Their  kindness  calls  down  on  them  blessings  from 

every  suffering  one. 

There  are   others   whose  names    I've  forgotten;    I 

cannot  remember  each  name; 
•But  each  should  appear  in  bright  letters  inscribed 

on  the  temple  of  fame. 
Their  kindness  will  sure  be  rewarded  in  this  world 

or  heaven  above, 
When  God  calls  His  people  together  to  share  the 

rewards  of  His  love. 
298 


FARMER  JOHN  ON  THE  ALBANY  HOSPITAL. 

Then  there  are  the  people  who  visit  their   friends 

who  to  them  are  so  dear, 
And    bring  gifts  of   sweet,    blooming   flowers   and 

loving  and  kind  words  of  cheer. 
God  bless  and  reward  those  dear  people;  they  know 

not  how  much  good  they  do, — 
Those   noble-souled  hospital  angels  whose  hearts 

are  so  loving  an'  true. 


299 


HOW   WE    PAID    FOR    THE    PARSON  AC,  I-:. 


7-r\ELL,    yes:    we've   got    it    paid   for   an'   tin 
vlx          church  is  out  of  debt; 
We  don't  owe  any  one  a  cent, — we're  clean  out  of 

the  wet. 

It    seemed,    one    time,    we'd    have  to  let  the  par- 
sonage be  sold, 

'Most  everybody  seemed  to  act  so  careless  an'  so 
cold. 

The  parsonage  is  'bout  the  nicest  buildin'  in  our 

street; 
Of  course  it  ain't  showy,    but    'tis   cozy,   snug  an' 

neat, 
An'  none  of  us  need   be  ashamed  when   strangers 

come  about 
An'   ask  about  our  parsonage  to  proudly,  p'int  it 

out. 

But  we  were  owin'  quite  a  sum  upon  the  buildin' 

yet, 
An'  people  didn't   seem  to  feel  like  payin'  up  the 

debt; 
Some  said  the  buildin'  cost  too  much, — the  trustees 

wasn't  smart, — 
They  ort  to  raised  the  money  first  before  they  made 

a  start. 

300 


HOW  WE  PAID  FOR  THE  PARSONAGE. 

It    run    on   so  for  quite  a   spell,    no   one  a   takin' 

hold;— 
The    debt    kept    growin'    bigger,    an'  folks  said  it 

must  be  sold, 
Although  a  few  kept  hangin'  on  an'  hopin'  for  the 

best, 
Determined   they'd  do  what  they  could    an'    trust 

God  for  the  rest. 

But  God,   it  seemed,  was  shapin'  things   about  in 

His  own  way, 
Although  we  kinder  fretted  an'  found  fault  with  the 

delay. 
We  couldn't  look  ahead  an'  see  just  what  was  for 

our  good, 
But  frettin'  cause  they  wouldn't  pay  when  we  were 

sure  they  could. 

At   length    the    parson   an'   trustees  decided  on   a 

plan: — 
The  parson  said,    "With  God's  good   help   I'll  do 

the  best  I  can; 
I  know  our  people  are  not  rich,  —  they  hain't  got 

much  to  spare, 
But  we  will  try  what  can  be  done  by  hitchin1  work 

with  prayer.  " 

An'  so  we  all  with  one  accord,  put  shoulder  to  the 

wheel; — 
The  parson  preached  'bout  payin'  debts  an'  worked 

up  quite  a  zeal. 

301 


HOW  WE  PAID  FOR  THE  PARSONAGE. 

It   opened  up  the  people's  eyes    'bout   what  they 

owed  the  Lord, 
An'  made  some    of   'em    willin'   to    give  all   they 

could  afford. 

The  men  they  worked,   the  women  worked,  'most 

ev'rybody  worked, 
An'  all  throughout  the  neighborhood  there  wa'n't 

but  few  that  shirked, 
An'  some  we  thought  that  used  to  be  the  stingiest 

'  of  all, 
Just  opened  up  their  pocket-books  an'  showed  they 

wasn't  small. 

I  s'pose  some  paid  a  good   deal  more   than  what 

they  could  afford, 
But  then  their  conscience  told  them  that  they  done 

it  for  the  Lord; 
An"  when  some  folks  make  up  their  minds  God's 

smile  is  on  their  deeds, 
They'll  shell  out  pooty  liberal  an'  trust  Him  for 

their  needs. 

As  I  was  tellin'  ye  afore,   the  men-folks  they  took 

hold;— 
Some    things    they'd    thought  they  couldn't  spare 

they  done  without  or  sold 
An"  took  the  cash  an'  turned  it  in  to  help  pay  up 

the  debt, 
An'    done    it    all    without    a   single    grumble  or  a 

fret. 

302 


HOW  WE  PAID  FOR  THE  PARSONAGE. 

The  women-folks  they  took  hold   too, — they   said 

they'd  do  their  share, 
An'  when  a  woman  says  she  will,  you  bet  she'll 

just  get  there. 
They  took  hold  with  a  spirit  on  a  regular  woman's 

plan 
That  never  could  been  made  to  work  if  got  up  by 

a  man. 

They  called  a  meetin'  by  themselves,  an'  ev'ry  one 
agreed 

She'd  earn  a  dollar  by  herself,  by  some  good,  use- 
ful deed; 

An'  so  they  went  to  work  on  that,  an'  meetin' 
ev'ry  week 

To  talk  the  matter  over  an'  compare  notes,  so  to 
speak. 

Some  went  to  workin'  tidies  an'  sold  them  at  the 

store, 
An'  some  saved  rags  an'  sold  'em  at  two'  cents  a 

pound  or  more, 
An'  some  amongst  the   farmers'  wives,   sold   eggs 

an'  saved  the  price, 
An'  some  went  out  a  cleanin'  house  an'  done  their 

work  up  nice. 

They  didn't  mind  the  labor,   for  they  had  a  lot  of 

fun, 
An'  ev'rybody  was  surprised  to  see  what  they  had 

done. 

303 


HOW  Wl:    r.lin  /<>A'    I  III:    /'. 

Then  they  ended  with  a  supper  in  the  ^oocl,  old- 
fashioned  style, 

An'  brought  a  hundred  dollars  in  to  help  make  up 
the  pile. 

The  men  who  hadn't  much  ahead  an'  worked  out 

by  the  day, 
Although  they  couldn't  pay  so  much,   a  little  they 

would  pay; 
An'  so  they  worked  so  many  days,  just  what  they 

could  afford, 
An'  gave  the  money  that  they  earned  an  offerin'  to 

the  Lord. 

The   children  in  the  Sunday-school,   they  felt  the 

spirit  too, 
An'  they  determined  that  they'd   show  what  little 

folks  could  do; 
Each  dropped  their  nickels  in  a  box  from  out  their 

little  store, 
An'  in  that  way  the  children  raised  just  fifty  dollars 

more. 

I  tell  ye  every  one  rejoiced  when  we  had  paid  the 

debt, 
An'  cheeks  that  showed  deep   lines  of  care,    with 

tears  of  joy  were  wet. 
Did  7  rejoice?  You  bet  I  did!   I  throwed  my  cap  up 

high 

An'  shouted  Hallelujah!  till  I  almost  split  the  sky. 
304 


HOW  WE  PAW  POR  THE  PARSONAGE. 

We   feel  a   good   deal  better  now — enjoy   religion 

more, 
Since  we  have  paid  that  awful  debt  than  what  we 

did  before. 
The  parson  smiles  an'  says  that  God  will  bless  us 

every  one, 
An'  mete  out  lots  of  good  to  us  to  pay  for  what 

.we've  done. 


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